Page 29 of Christmas By Design

Jack pauses in the process of loading his shovel into the back of his truck. “Mornin’, Miss,” he says. “I was telling your coworker here, I always come plow Mrs. Dash’s route after a storm like this. I wasn’t sure she’d be here or with her son, but I saw your car and figured you could use some help getting out of here.”

She seems to tense at the word “coworker,” but then claps her gloved hands and wiggles. “This is amazing. Thank you so much.”

“No problem. You both have a merry Christmas, okay?” Jack strides quickly back to the warmth of his truck and waves at us as he backs out and continues plows down the street.

I scowl after the truck as I watch it continue to clear the snow off the abandoned country road, but I can feel Gemma’s eyes on me. I suppose I’ll have to deal with this sooner rather than later. But when I finally look at her, those green eyes are wide with excitement, as if Jack was her own, personal Santa Claus, and the ability to spend Christmas Eve with her family was the only gift she ever wanted.

“We should clean up,” I hedge, hoping to have at least a little more time to get my head on straight. Maybe to even talk to her about whatever this was.

“I did already. That’s what took me so long.” Sure enough, a bag of leftover groceries sits at her feet.

“The fire, though. We have to make sure it’s out,” I insist.

Gemma shakes her head. “There was a fire blanket next to the fireplace. Plus, it was almost out. I used the blanket and water. We’re good.”

I study her for a long time, trying and failing to come up with any more reasons to stay. “Well,” I finally say. “Let’s get you home, I guess.”

I’m miserably bad at small talk. Turns out I’m miserably bad at big talk, too. There is a giant elephant in this car with us, and I’m too chicken shit to talk about it. So, we end up making the entire drive back to her parents’ house in silence.

But Gemma doesn’t say anything, either. She just stares out the passenger window. Even though she’s not biting her nails this time, it seems obvious after a while that she’s purposely not looking at me. She regrets our time together now that we’re in the light of day. I’m sure of it. She’s thought this through, realized I’m technically her superior, or that our personalities clash and she’d rather not spend any more time with my grumpy ass than she has to, or that she can’t introduce me to her kid. Or maybe even that I’m simply too old for her. Ten years is a lot for some people. Whatever it is, she’s over it, and she just doesn’t want to break it to me. Back to normal.

I tell myself it’s fine. In fact, by the time I’ve pulled into her parents’ driveway, I’ve decided it’s a good call. All of those things are true, and we can’t change them just because we had incredible sex. Or just because I think she’s adorable and funny. Or that I’ve never felt this way about a woman before.

A chubby face appears in the window of the house behind an outline of large, colorful Christmas lights that are unlit in the waning daylight. A tree fills the window next to them, and the lights on it twinkle from inside. Nova sees her mom and starts jumping up and down, banging on the glass. A woman who must be Gemma’s mother appears behind her and lifts her up gently. They wave at us, and Gemma’s entire body leans forward in her seat as if she’s being pulled toward them by an invisible force.

But she stays in the car instead of leaping out of it and leaving me in the dust like I expect her to.

“Do you want to come in?” She doesn’t take her eyes off her daughter.

I’m not sure I heard her right. “What?” I ask.

She turns to me then, her gorgeous eyes almost pleading. “Come in. No one should be alone on Christmas Eve.”

I frown at her. “I like being alone on Christmas Eve.”

She tilts her head and regards me as if she knows I’m full of shit. And maybe I am, but when I glance back at her daughter waiting excitedly for her mom to get out of my car and celebrate the holiday with her, I’m sure I’m making the right decision. Gemma can’t just try me out, let Nova get attached, and watch me walk away unscathed. That happened to my own mother one time, and it was enough to turn her off from dating for the rest of her life. I can’t allow that to happen to Gemma. She’s got a whole life ahead of her. She has other things to worry about besides her own broken heart, if it were to come to that.

No. It’s best if I go home, drink my brandy, and cuddle my cat.

I shake my head. “Go spend time with your family, Gemma,” I say quietly. “It’s what you wanted for Christmas.”

She deflates a bit, but perks right up again when Nova leans forward from her grandma’s arms to bang on the window one more time. “Okay,” Gemma says, resigned. “I’ll see you after the holidays, then, I guess.”

She shoots me one last questioning glance, as if wondering if maybe I’d want to see each other before then. Of course I do, but I don’t even know what that would look like. I’m not going to make promises I can’t keep right now, so I nod once.

She blinks rapidly a few times, then swallows before she gets out of the car. I watch her walk all the way to the door, which opens for her as soon as she approaches. Nova practically launches herself into Gemma’s arms before she’s across the threshold.

It’s a sweet reunion, and I know from talking to her on the floor of that dark, cold office that Gemma is over the moon to see her daughter after the impromptu night away. So, I try not to be too hurt that she doesn’t even spare me a glance before the door closes behind her.

Chapter 18

Gemma

The kitchen is an absolute disaster, as it always is on Christmas Eve. My mom has her famous pot roast in the oven, and vegetable ends litter the countertops. Where there aren’t remnants from her cooking dinner, there’s flour strewn in white drifts across every other available surface along with trays of about six different kinds of Christmas cookies. Nova won’t let go of my neck, so I sit down at the kitchen table with her in my lap, facing me. It allows her to get a better grip with her legs around my middle, but at least my arms get a break.

I grab a recently-frosted sugar cookie off a nearby tray and take a giant bite. “You know Santa only needs one or two cookies, right?” I direct the question over Nova’s shoulder to my mother, who is currently squeezing little green trees out of a cookie press.

Mom gives me a long-suffering look. I say something about her cookie-pocalypse every year, and every year, she says the same thing she does now: “Santa’s not the only one who needs a little Christmas cheer.” Except this time, she follows it up with, “You look like you could use some cheer, yourself.”