The door closes behind him before I can do anything to convince him to tell me. For a heartbeat I debate running out after him, but he won’t tell me—and I have a feeling I’ll find out soon. It must be related to Christmas. I have a secret from him, too. Which reminds me . . .
“Mom?” I ask, heading to the kitchen. She’s on her way to her bedroom. “Did you make sure that our gift for Eli—”
“I made sure it wasn’t damaged, and it works,” she says. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“No, just wanted to make sure it’s ready. Pretty sure we wouldn’t have time to check it tomorrow.”
We get a freshdusting of snow overnight, so the fountain is covered in a thin blanket of powder when I meet Eli. His mouth opens in a surprised sort of smile when I approach with Widget. Widget lets out a happy bark and wiggles, and chargesto Eli when I let go of his leash. Eli crouches and pets the furry menace, then grabs his leash before Widget can run away.
“Thought it’d be quiet enough to bring him,” I say. Widget gets seriously excited when he sees other people and dogs at the park—sometimes a bit too much. There isn’t another person in sight, so he’s only slightly more energized than usual.
Eli keeps the leash as we walk. “Did your parents say anything about when they wanted to talk to you today or tomorrow?” I ask.
“My mom texted last night to say they’ll call Christmas day. We’ll see. I know she’ll try, at least.”
She better call him, or I’ll give her an earful next time I get a chance. I don’t want to get frustrated thinking about his absent parents, though, and ask about the secret he’s keeping . . . and somehow I don’t get an answer and we end up talking about my extended family.
We stay in the park for a bit after our walk, lying back on the snow—stealing a few moments in the private, quiet space, just us aside from the handful of people we see walk by. Widget curls up on my stomach and snoozes.
“Eli?”
“Yeah?”
I brush the back of my hand against his. “Nothing. I just . . . hope you’re having a good Christmas Eve.”
“It’s not even 10 o’clock in the morning.” He curls his little finger against mine and locks those dark, serious eyes on me. “But I’m already having the best one I can remember.”
That promising mischief I saw in his eyes last night flares again, and his throat bobs as he swallows. We turn toward each other, my hand already reaching to palm the back of his neck and pull him in for a kiss—but I forget about Widget, who stumbles to his feet on the snow between us and shakes, splattering us both with mostly melted snow.
“Well that ruined that moment,” I say, wiping my hand across my face.
Eli laughs, a deep chuckle that sends a wave of warmth through me, and jumps to his feet before helping me stand. “We’ll have another opportunity.” He takes Widget’s leash. “If we don’t leave now your family might beat us back. And I’m not wearing this sweater in front of all of them.”
I gasp. “You wore the ugly sweater?”
He walks forward. “Consider it part of your present. And I expect you to wear the elf hat at some point today.”
I laugh and catch up, matching my stride to his. “No problem.”
FIFTEEN
ELI
Mrs. Benson swoops Widget into her arms when we get to the house, rubs a towel over him, gives him a treat in the form of a bite of cheese, and calls him onto her lap on the couch with a blanket.
“You’d think he just came back from war or something,” Jack says.
“He didn’t choose to stay out in the cold wet snow, poor baby,” Mrs. Benson insists. “Besides, he needs some snuggles before it gets crazy again.”
Hugh pulls Jack to the car mat to play with him.
I press the button to turn on the lights on my ugly sweater and walk into the living room, arms spread wide so Mrs. Benson can see the sweater in all its hideous glory. “Happy Christmas Eve, Mrs. Benson,” I say, half smiling, half grimacing.
She presses one hand over her mouth as if to stifle her laughter but gives it up after a few seconds, laughing outright. “That’s what Jack gave you?” she gasps.
Jack sniggers. “And he’s worn it twice now!”
Hugh stares at the glowing lights on my sweater and frowns at them, looks at Mrs. Benson with a wrinkled nose as if he doesn’t get why she’s laughing, and goes back to racing his cars.
