Page 81 of Mad About Yule

I hang up on my sister. That’s going to cost me. She’ll have a whole new subject to grill me about in her text messages. I sit on the treadmill for a while, wondering how one goes about securing a burner phone.

Between my sister trying to horn in on my festival and my mother trying to take the reins in my social life, I’m having a smashing Thanksgiving. I want to go home, slip into pajamas, and watchScrooged, but I just killed my escape route by drinking a full glass of wine in five minutes. I need another way.

Maybe the problem can also be the solution. Or maybe the solution will create an even bigger problem, but my thumbs fly on my phone before I can think it through.

Hope: Rescue me please

Laughter rolls around in the next room. It’s early yet—maybe they haven’t even had dinner. Maybe he’s engrossed in some McBride family Thanksgiving tradition, like football out on the lawn. Maybe he’s having a nice, normal family meal and doesn’t have time for—

Griffin: Where are you?

Hope: Holiday horror show

I type in my parents’ address.

Griffin: Be there in five

Chaotic flutters spin through me, like a parade balloon that’s sprung a leak. I send him another waffle emoji before I can think better of it.

I waffle you, Griffin.

I start giggling, because I’m a mature woman. I really need to ration my wine next time. At least I’m sober enough not to send that one. Barely, but I do stop myself.

I walk back into the living room, where my parents have snuggled up on the couch. When they look over at me, I try to sound as disappointed as possible. “I need to leave for a while.”

They both start asking questions at the same time.

“There’s a problem with the Christmas festival.” From their concerned faces, I’m dimly aware I’m playing it too somber. My excuse needs to be serious enough to get me out of here, but not so serious I wind up with a worried escort. “It’s just a problem with the lights, but if we don’t get on it right away, it could be a bigger problem later.”

A problem with the lights? Am I really using the Grinch’s line to Cindy Lou Who?

“Isn’t that something they can take care of tomorrow?” Mom asks. “It’s a holiday.”

“Technically, I’m the boss.” I clamp my mouth shut to stop the giggles that want to burst out. I never thought I’d love being called that, but I really, really do. “I’m going to go with one of the volunteers to check it out for a bit.”

“Which volunteer?” Mom asks at the same time Griffin’s truck pulls up out front.

This was quite possibly a disastrously stupid plan, but I blame the wine. Maybe the flimsy lights story will be enough to hold off more questions, but right now, I don’t care much. Sober Hope can deal with that later.

I grab my parka out of the hall closet, wave to my parents, and dash out the front door without answering Mom’s question. I stomp down the snowy drive and toss myself into the passenger seat before Griffin has a chance to even turn off the engine.

“You’re in a hurry today,” he says dryly.

I grin at him. “Just drive.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

GRIFFIN

Playinghero for Hope isn’t a bad gig, even if I’m just helping her escape a family dinner. She didn’t let me so much as get out of my truck, though. I tell myself to let it go. Hard to work up much of a bad mood when she’s right here next to me.

“So, Thanksgiving was good?” I say. She laughs, and something about the husky quality rings a bell. “Good Lord, you’re drunk.”

She sits taller and turns her cute little nose up. “I had one glass of wine, thank you.”

“I don’t know how I feel about you drunk-calling me.”

I do know. I want her to call me every time she gets buzzed.

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