Page 84 of The Christmas Yes List

“I’d love to.”

Wait.

No no no.

Whatever computerized, analytical thought process James was undergoing seems to have finished, and he is looking determined and confident in his decision.

He’s saying yes.

To coming to Nana’s.

Another. Game. Of. Yes.

“Now hang on,” I begin, but Čedomir is flinging his arm around James’s shoulder triumphantly, as though this is going to be the best Christmas ever now that everyone is amenable to doing exactly what he says.

“Tremendous,” he says, strolling James away from me as he begins to tell James about all the things he will have left to do between now and go time tomorrow morning.

Is Čedomir moving him away from me on purpose?

He is! He’s cementing this plan that I had no intention of asking James to participate in, and I stand powerless in the wake of Čedomir’s strong personality to oppose him.

I am weak.

James casts one look over his shoulder and catches my gaze. He proffers a small smile.

And it feels . . . sincere.

Like a look shared between two confidants who are both in the presence of crazed company. Like he actually cares about me. Like he actually wants to do this. To go to my grandmother’s farmhouse. Because of me.

But it’s all fake.

James is more committed to the cause of saying yes for his own little game than even I am. He’s more dedicated. He doesn’t quit, does he?

Well, that makes sense.

Everything about him exudes success in self-control—down to the narcissistic tendencies that spiraled him into making a vow to fix himself in the first place.

Who knows? Maybe he thinks this will be his triumphant final test of the will, proof that he can be so “go with the flow” that he’ll even say yes to a multiday family gathering in the woods with a woman he cares nothing for.

I’m the ultimate challenge. And he’s determined to win the game against himself.

Chapter 11

“Hey there.”

James stands at my door, hands in his pockets. His face is open, but frankly, I just can’t trust myself anymore. No more trying to understand him.

Let’s just get through this terrible experience.

We both know I’ve failed.

He’s wearing that black wool funnel-neck overcoat I first met him in that makes him look ready to jump into a business meeting and hire and fire at will. It’s truly him. And what are those things on his hands? Black leather driving gloves? Is he trying to stay warm or planning to murder me on the way?

He must notice my expression because he looks at his hands. “What?” he says.

“Nothing.”

“What?” he insists, flipping his hands over to inspect there as well.