“And your sister thought we needed fuel to keep us going.”
“That tracks.”
When I step inside, my eyes widen. Our suitcases are shoved to the side of the bed. At the foot of the bed, he’s arranged four rolls of wrapping paper, three different kinds of tape, spools of ribbon, a heap of stick-on-bows, and even two pairs of scissors.
“Wow.” I take it all in. “You thought of everything.”
Grinning, he takes the tray from me and sets it on the small dresser. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I got options. Are they okay?”
I barely glance at them. I’m so giddy he thought to buy wrapping supplies, they could be covered in poop emojis and I’d still be thrilled. “They’re perfect.”
He narrows his eyes. “Did you even look at them?”
I flash him a guilty smile. “Of course, I did. It’s all very… festive.”
“First wine.” He picks up the bottle and corkscrew, arching a brow. “I suspect she’s premedicating you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’s fortifying you for when Grant and Eloise get here.”
The reminder drops like an anchor, pulling down my light mood. Somehow, I’d forgotten about that part. “Will he be pissed?”
“He already knows he’s sleeping in the rec room,” Alex says, twisting the corkscrew into the bottle. “Eloise, though… when she’s in a mood, she’s a handful.”
“What puts her in a mood?”
“Your guess is as good as ours, but it’s a pretty safe bet tonight’s mood will be about our bed.”
I cringe, hating that I’m about to be the spark for family drama.
“Don’t you feel bad,” he says as the cork pops free. “This isn’t about you.”
“It has everything to do with me.”
“I thought I was playing the role of the narcissist in this relationship,” he teases, pouring wine into one of the glasses.
That makes me cringe. “I never called you a narcissist.”
“You didn’t have to.” He hands me the glass with a smirk. “I earned the title fair and square.”
I take it, still watching him, unsettled by the strange dance we’re caught in. He’s playing the role of attentive boyfriend a little too well—and right now, it isn’t for his family’s benefit. We’re alone. I’m the only audience to his performance.
He pours himself a glass and lifts it towards mine. For a second, his expression makes me think he’s about to say something serious, then he deadpans, “May our gifts not look like they were dragged in by the family dog.”
Laughing, I click my glass into his. “Speak for yourself. I do a lovely job of wrapping gifts.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says. “Which is why you should wrap mine too.”
“Oh no.” I wag a finger at him. “You’re a fully grown man, perfectly capable of working with paper and tape.”
He gives me a pleading look. “Even if it looks like a kindergartener wrapped them?”
“Especially then.” I grin. “All the more fodder for your family to rib you.”
We sip some wine, then settle on the floor at the end of the bed. Before long, we’re swiping each other’s tape and scissors and trading jabs—me mocking the lopsided mess he calls a gift for his father, him accusing me of being a “Christmas overachiever” when my corners come out perfect.
We finish the wine, and I blame my tipsiness on the undeniable pull toward him. He’s sitting closer than when we started, but maybe it’s just my imagination. We’re friends. Friends having fun.
