Page 36 of Not In The Christmas Plan
We turn off the overhead light, and when the tree lights flick on, everything glows red and gold and magic—like a scene from a Christmas picture book.
“In my mind…” Grant croons along to The Temptations, right on pitch.
I giggle when he reaches for the high notes. “You and those falsettos.”
The smile he aims at me could melt a glacier—or the ice around my heart.
He holds out a hand and I slip mine into his without hesitation. His arm slides around my waist, mine up to his shoulder, and we sway.
“Today was magical,” I whisper, looking up at him. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
I rise onto my toes, brushing my lips over his in a slow, sweet kiss. And though the thoughtthis could be dangerousflashes in my mind, I don’t let it take root. I want Grant. The dancing, laughing, and possibility of a future.
So for once, I let joy win.
Chapter fifteen
Three days later, Grant is still milking the fact that I fell asleep duringThe Best Man: The Final Chapters.Never mind I’ve seen all the episodes. Suddenly,he’sthe expert on how the past always bleeds into the present.
“I gotta say though, Quentin’s attempt to cook for Shelby reminded me of—” Grant cuts his sentence short when he finally looks back at me. He takes in my crossed arms and jutted hip and firmly closes those full lips.
“And what, exactly, did Quentin’s cooking remind you of?”
Grant shrugs as he smooths the crib skirt.
“Uh huh.” I lean toward the mobile. “Because for a second there, I thought you were about to say it reminded you of my stuffed shells.”
“What? No, your shells were…”
“See?” I point at him. “You can’t even saygood! I’m never cooking again.”
Grant grabs my hand. “There’s one thing I don’t play about—homemade meals. I appreciatedevery bite.”
I scoff. I won’t be mollified by his soft tone. “I thought you didn’t play about pie and cracking eggs?”
“There’sthreethings I don’t play about: pie, cracking eggs, and homemade meals.” He kisses my knuckles soft enough to make my knees wobble.
I clear my throat. “Get back to work.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
We work in companionable silence, finishing the beds and slipping a cover over the nursing pillow, when the changing table catches my eye. The bins look wrong. I swap the diapers and wipes so it’ll be easier for Ivy and Braxton to grab wipes with their right hand first. But when I step back, it still feels off. I adjust the wipes again so all the packet labels face the same way.
“You know Nia and Amani won’t care which way the wipes face, right?” Grant teases behind me.
“They may not, but organization matters,” I say primly, cheeks warming as I wonder how long he was watching.
I’m a control freak at the best of times, but those urges seem to be riding me extra today and I can’t help but grab ahold of whatever is in my reach to control.
Christmas is less than two weeks away, and there’s still no word about Ivy and the babies coming home. My nieces are in the NICU. My twin is in another city. And I’m here, straightening labels on wipe packs like it matters. I just feel so helpless. I can’t do anything to make them stronger, can’t will them into this house we’ve worked so hard to prepare. All I can do is wait, and waiting has never felt more unbearable in my life.
I almost ask Grant how he’s holding up not being able to see everyone, but before I can he frowns.
“Do you hear that?” he asks.
I hold still, thinking for one wild second he means my racing thoughts. Then I hear it, faint voices floating through the cold December air. Singing.
