“I ten percent approve right now,” Bekah says.
“You don’t have to approve at all. After New Years’, I’m never going to see this guy again.” I inhale slowly. “Has Alex come by the restaurant?”
“Don’t do this to yourself.”
“I’m notdoinganything. I’m just curious. They’ve been dating a year now, right? I’m wondering if they’re engaged yet.”
“No. He hasn’t been by, and Peter hasn’t mentioned anything either.” She yawns again. “You okay?”
“Yes. I am. Go to sleep now.”
There’s a pregnant pause before she accepts. “Okay. But don’t forget to text me bucket list updates. If I can’t be in Scotland, I need to live vicariously through your photos.”
“Deal.”
“Good night, Cal.”
“’Night.”
We hang up, and I toss my phone on the bed beside me. If Bekah’s right and Gavin is selective to protect his heart from a massive pain in his past, then I feel like a complete chump. If I’m right and he’s just picky…
Does it matter?
I’m only here to enjoy Christmas, which is what I’ll do. Itdoesn’t matter why he thinks I’m not good enough to kiss him. I need to let it go.
Three layers—one of which is, in fact, thermal underwear—a sweater, and two pairs of socks later, I’m ready to return downstairs. Gavin is seated at the kitchen table in front of a laptop, his brow furrowed in concentration. It clears when I darken the doorway, his eyes lifting to my face. “Feel better?”
“My neck is sore, but I took ibuprofen.”
He nods. “Need a bite?”
My head falls to the side in slight admonishment. “You don’t need to cook for me. Believe it or not, I manage perfectly well on my own back home.”
There’s a beat before he concedes. “Coffee’s brewed on the counter. Help yourself to whatever’s in the cupboards.”
It’s strange, moving around someone else’s kitchen while they’re sitting directly behind me. I’d feel more comfortable if he was working, but the man is just sitting in his seat at the end of the long, solid table watching me pull eggs from the cupboard and fry them in a pan, then plate them over toast. I put my plate a few seats down from him and peel an orange while pulling up the last fiction book I started but didn’t finish…sometime last year.
“You want some?” I ask without looking up. Gavin’s gaze is hot on my neck.
“No, thanks.”
Really? I pop an orange segment in my mouth and chew. When I look up, he’s staring at my plate. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You sure? Seems like you have a problem with my breakfast.”
“Not at all. I was lost in thought.” He leans back in his chair and rubs the nape of his neck. “Would you like the bad news or the truly bad news?”
Ah. So that’s why he was staring. My bite of egg on toast stalls before reaching my mouth. “Is this going to make me lose my appetite?”
“Good point. Breakfast first.” He swirls a hand toward me to indicate I should continue eating.
I’m sure I’d rather know now, but we can’t go anywhere anyway, and I don’t want cold eggs, so I eat quickly. Gavin’s blue eyes trail the table. He’s wearing a brown cable-knit sweater, and his hair is messily combed out of his face. His beard is trimmed neatly, and with the big window behind him and the snowy wonderland it frames, he looks like he could be posing to advertise wool sweaters or coffee for burly men.
In my layers upon layers, I probably look like I’m trying to promote hibernation.
Rising, I carry my dirty dishes to the sink and begin to wash them. “Okay, hit me with the bad news.”
