Christmas Eve.
Sam, Rowan, and I are in the kitchen working on a dinner that’s shaping up to be a real Italian feast.
Rowan’s on pasta duty, stirring lamb ragù in a giant stainless steel pot. Sam’s arranging the cheese and cold cuts he got from some specialty store in Kansas City on a wooden board and layering fresh mozzarella on top of the caprese salad. I’ve been put in charge of the garlic bread.
Christmas tunes filter in from the speaker in the living room. We even got a tree this morning and hung up some of the old decorations I found in my shed the other day.
I slice the baguette, careful not to cut all the way through, and spread a generous mixture of butter, garlic, and herbs in between each slice. I pop it into the oven to bake, and the warm scent of garlic fills the kitchen, mingling with the fragrant aroma of Rowan's lamb ragù simmering on the stove.
“More wine?” Sam asks, lifting one of the bottles of red he brought over.
“Sure.”
He refills my glass and then tops off his own. “How’s it been this week at work?”
“Not bad, actually. Brett’s been out the past couple of days, which helps a lot.” Carly told me he's visiting someone in Kansas City. He has a bunch of friends there from his college days. I’m not looking forward to seeing him when I go back to work the day after Christmas.
“I went over to take a look at the house this morning. Your guys are making good progress.”
Sam smiles. “I wanted them to get as much done as they could before the holidays.”
I place my hand on his arm, overcome with gratefulness. “Thank you. I really appreciate everything you and Rowan are doing for me.”
Some color appears on Sam’s cheeks. “Of course. Happy to help.”
The tiramisu Rowan and I prepared yesterday is sitting in the fridge, so I take it out and bring it out to the new dining table in the living room. I’ve gotten used to eating on the sofa with him, but with Sam coming over, we’ve had to upgrade.
We? Careful.
I swallow, some apprehension appearing low inside my belly. There is nowe. There’s Rowan, and there’s me. Over the last week, it’s been getting harder and harder to remember that.
Outside the window, snow is falling softly, coating the world in a blanket of white. The lights on the Christmas tree twinkle, casting a warm glow over the living room.
It’s almost too perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever had a Christmas like this. Mom did her best, but it was the one holiday Dad never skipped, and I was always on pins and needles whenever he was around.
And the last few years with just my mom were difficult. I couldn’t help but wonder if every year was the last one we’d celebrate together, and I’d usually be overcome with anger at Maxton for not coming again. We’d finish dinner, and I'd help her get into bed, and then all I used to want to do was pass out and forget about the day.
But right now, I don’t want this day to ever end.
Truthfully, I don’t wantanyof this to end.
Which means my control is slipping. How much longer can I keep denying what’s brewing between Rowan and I?
God.This isn’t a story I can stop by simply closing the book. This is my life, and if I don’t rein in my feelings for Rowan, I’m setting myself up to get hurt.
I hear the guys laughing in the kitchen. A moment later, Rowan comes out with the ragù and puts it on the cork trivet in the middle of the table.
I walk over and peek inside the pot. “Smells incredible.”
Rowan grins, looking pleased at the compliment. “It better be. It’s been cooking for hours. Hope you guys are hungry.”
“Fuck!”
Sam’s shout makes Rowan and me rush back to the kitchen. We find him hopping from one foot to the other, wrestling with his wet shirt.
“What happened?” Rowan asks.
“The pasta water went all over me when I went to dump it out.”
