“I’ll wear it with pride, but you could have just changed in the bathroom.”
I exhaled, finally tugging the pajama top into place and glancing in the mirror. My hair was a mess, my cheeks were pink from mortification, and my chin had a tiny red mark where it hit the couch, but honestly? I didn’t look half bad for someone who’d just survived a one-woman slapstick routine.
“Okay,” I said, pulling myself together. “You can turn around now.”
He turned slowly, the grin already forming the second his gaze landed on me. “Nice pajamas.”
“They’re festive,” I said defensively.
“They’ve got Santa heads and candy canes.”
“Exactly. It’s Christmas.”
He chuckled, eyes lingering a little longer than necessary. “You look… cozy.”
The way he said it, rough around the edges and low enough to hum, made my pulse skip.
“Don’t start,” I said, moving to the kitchen.
“Didn’t say a word.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Probably,” he admitted, still smiling. “But hey, points for honesty.”
I busied myself pulling out ingredients from the bag: pasta, sauce, garlic bread, and a bottle of wine Lydia had probably hidden in there on purpose. My hands were still shaking slightly, though whether from nerves or amusement, I couldn’t tell.
Drew leaned against the counter, watching me with that unreadable mix of amusement and affection. “You sure you’re up for cooking after that acrobatic performance?”
I shot him a look. “One more word and you’re eating cereal for dinner.”
“Noted.”
He held up his hands in surrender, but his eyes were dancing.
Somehow, even as my chin throbbed and my pride lay in tatters, I couldn’t stop smiling. Because the truth was, this was us—messy, ridiculous, funny, and alive.
And that was exactly what I’d missed most, which was the problem.
Especially during the holidays.
If someone had told me this morning that I’d be cooking spaghetti in Santa pajamas with Drew Benedict standing six feet, or maybe six inches, away from me, I’d have laughed. Then maybe cried. Then moved to a new zip code.
But here we were.
The flurries still piled up outside, with wind howling like a warning neither of us wanted to hear. Inside, the apartment was warm, bright with the glow of Christmas lights Lydia had hung everywhere.
Drew leaned against the counter, watching me like I was both the entertainment and the main course.
“So,” he said, nodding at the pot. “This is your idea of cooking dinner?”
“It’s called pasta,” I said, trying to sound breezy while I stirred. “Some of us have mastered it.”
He grinned, that slow, crooked thing that made my knees feel unreliable. “I’m impressed. You even turned the stove on.”
“Keep talking and you’ll be eating it off the floor.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve threatened me in a kitchen.”
