Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Zane flips my eggs in a way that would make Casey proud before he answers, “You asked me to stay.”
“I also asked you to screw me senseless, and that didn’t happen.”
When his eyes shoot to the living room window that faces the street, I release a girlie giggle. He did the same thing multiple times last night. His gawk always followed a familiar Christmassy chant.
I can admit it was odd that Santa’s greetings only seemed to occur while I was trying to lure Zane into a trap by pretending I wasn’t drunk, but I brushed it off as a coincidence.
Zane didn’t seem convinced by my verdict. After a second bellowing chant, he yanked my hand out of my panties, dragged up the blanket from the foot of my bed, and tucked me in like my father did every Christmas eve since I was three—in a straitjacket design I couldn’t escape from until the morning.
“You know he’s not watching you twenty-four-seven, right? He has millions of children to check off his list each year.”
He swirls the frypan to loosen up the eggs before sliding them onto two slices of toast. “I might have believed you if that fu…” He freezes before picking a better word. “… that Santa hadn’t been following me all over Ravenshoe.”
I laugh so hard I snort. “He’s not the same Santa. They’re charity Santas who get their suits at the same store.” When not even my hungover head can take my tone any other way, I murmur, “Right?”
Zane shrugs. “I thought so too, then—”
“You had too many candy cane cocktails and turned into an elf?”
He takes my comment as intended. After tossing back his head and laughing, he wiggles his slightly pointed ears. “I’ve got the ears for it.” Once he garnishes my eggs with fresh dill, he places my plate in front of me. “Eat up. We’ve got a ton of work to do.”
I stab my fork into the feast he prepared while replying, “Since you seemed to have missed the memo, I guess I better spell it out. I got fired yesterday, so I have endless dreary, boring, non-joyful hours at my disposal.”
You’d swear my voice wasn’t whiny when Zane says, “Even more reason for us to spruce up the place.”
After swallowing a mouthful of buttery, eggy goodness, I say, “You want to go furniture shopping? My budget could be stretched for a handful of necessities, but it seems odd to do on a third date.”
Zane doesn’t balk at the dreaded D word. “We’re not going furniture shopping. Your couch is a bitch to sleep on, and you only have enough place settings for two, but you’ve got enough to get by.” He kicks a box at his side, which I hadn’t noticed until now. “Can’t say the same for this. There are barely enough decorations inside to cover a tree, let alone an entire apartment.” Oblivious to my shock, he ensures he’s not speaking with a full mouth before asking, “Talking about trees, when is yours being delivered?”
“It’s not. I… ah…” How do you explain that your ex-fiancé collected your tree and decorated it with your ornaments with his new fiancée in front of you because you were snowed in at the venue meant to host your Christmas Eve wedding?
There isn’t a way to explain that without sounding like a loser, so I give him a half-truth.
“I wasn’t meant to be home for Christmas, so I didn’t order a tree.”
“Oh…” The dip in his tone makes sense when he asks, “I didn’t realize I wasn’t the only one leaving before festivities truly begin.” He sounds as devastated as I feel when he asks, “When do you leave?”
“I’m not. Plans changed.” Hating that I’m letting a man like Peter make me forget I have an Adonis sitting across from me shirtless, I say, “So I guess I no longer have an excuse not to get a tree. We can pick one up today, if you want?”
I overemphasized ‘we’ on purpose to scare him.
Zane once again acts blasé. “Sounds good. Let me clear my schedule.”
The rejection attempting to burn its way up my esophagus returns to my stomach when he collects his cell phone from the kitchen counter and dials what I assume is a regularly dialed number.
“Casey…”
“Just a little more. You’re almost there.” When pine thistles scrape my doorframe, I act ignorant. “It’s almost there. You’re nearly fully through.”
In homage to myself, I picked the tree with the biggest curves. Its top half fitted through the opening of my apartment without incident, but its curvy backside is proving difficult. Zane is pushing while I’m tugging, and we’ve been going at it for nearly twenty minutes, but Zane has not once lost his cool as Peter would have nineteen minutes ago.
If I was still with Peter, I wouldn’t have gotten the tree out of the lot. He hates vacuuming, and even with me promising to vacuum every day of December, he forever opted for a fake tree.