“Are you trying to smother yourself?” I tease.
“If it saves me from the torture, then yes.” His voice mumbles from beneath the pillow.
I tug the pillow away, and he blinks up at me. “Do you want me to suffer?”
“And if I said yes?” I ask playfully.
His eyes crack open in a squint. “Then I probably deserve it.”
The weight of reality crashes back—Grant is here, and I’m ruining his Christmas. My smile falters.
Alex’s humor vanishes the second he sees it. “Don’t,” he pleads softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t go.”
My breath catches. I want to stay—so badly. Not just because I love spending time with his family, but because I love spending time with him. Once I go home, how do I go back to the superficial banter we had before? Especially when I want so much more. More than he’s willing to give.
I sit up, and he does too, turning to face me.
“Just give it today and see how it goes, okay?” he asks. The pleading in his voice catches me off guard. It feels like more than worry over Eloise showing up—but I can’t risk reading too much into it. I have to protect my heart.
“Okay.” But it’s easy to agree because I already promised Barb and Mirna. “So, what does a typical King Christmas look like?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“How about I just show you?” A twinkle fills his eyes, and he hops out of bed. “Don’t change. Another tradition.”
We go downstairs—me in my pajamas, him in his sweatpants and a T-shirt. His parents are already at the island with steaming mugs of coffee—also in their pajamas—and the air smells like sweet and savory heaven.
“Merry Christmas,” Valerie says warmly, though her gaze lingers on me.
“Merry Christmas,” Alex and I say in unison. He gives me a boyish smile, and my heart flips.
Do not fall for Alex King.
I think it’s a little too late for that.
All the more reason to leave tomorrow.
I make everyone espresso drinks as best I can without a machine, and a short bit later, Mallory and Tyler come down, and I make them drinks too. Alex keeps shooting me glances like he’s not happy I’m making them, but he doesn’t seem mad about it.
A timer dings, and Valerie pulls a bubbling breakfast casserole dish from the oven, followed by a tray of cinnamon rolls. Grant still hasn’t come up, but Valerie insists we eat without him. The guilt gnaws at me. Would they have waited if I wasn’t here?
We dish up buffet-style and carry our plates to the table. We’ve barely started eating when Grant shuffles in wearing Santa flannel pajama pants and a gray T-shirt. He has a major case of bedhead and the dark circles under his eyes make him look like he’s been on an all-night bender.
If he’s annoyed we didn’t wait for him, he doesn’t let on, but he does take offense when he sees the nearly empty coffee pot.
“No coffee?” he demands, giving the pot a shake.
“Your father and I drank most of it,” Valerie says smoothly, “but Finley can make you a drink.”
“Finley?” His disbelief drips like acid.
“She can make all kinds of coffee drinks,” Mallory says. “What do you usually order at a coffee shop?” Mallory asks.
“Coffee,” he says dryly, pouring the dregs into his cup. It barely fills it a quarter of the way.
“I can make you an Americano,” I offer quickly, getting to my feet. “That’s what I make for Tyler and your dad. Or I could use the French press.”
