Page 54 of Go Back to December

Luiza Johnson

I can’t believe he didn’t come today. What a prick.

Sofia Johnson

Luiza, STOP.

Annabel Yates

Yeah, lay off. I bailed too. And you know how he is about funerals.

Someone tell me there is video of Mel’s performance.

Luiza Johnson

We can have a dramatic reenactment up at the lake.

They keep referencing the New Year Lake Celebration Plan, which involves festivities at their vacation cabin. It’s the night that Sofia asked Baz to forfeit for his Christmas present, and they’re selectively forgetting that Baz has yet to agree to it.

Melody, miha, make sure you reheat the leftovers in the oven.

Or the croquettes will get soggy.

Will do. I know Baz will want to check in with you later.

Luiza Johnson

Okay Boomer.

Annabel Yates

Dream the dream.

Despite the biting wind, there’s a warmth bubbling through me from their easy affection. It’s drawing me further into the quagmire of their strained relationship with Baz. The most important thing is saving the café, and the more I get involved with all of this, the more I’m putting our deal at risk. This stupid charade has to end before I do more damage.

When I return to Baz’s apartment, I head straight for the shower. The scalding water scrubs off the frozen sweat crusted over my back, but it can’t wash away my disappointment. Changing into my coziest sweater and yoga pants doesn’t make me more comfortable with the conversation I need to have with Baz.

He’s parked himself in the living room, in front of the fire. His long body spreads out across the sectional so he can elevate his leg; a sporty-looking ice pack circles his knee. Firelight glints off the glass of wine clenched in his hand.

With the crisp scent of evergreens clinging to the warmth of the space, and my emotional hangover from the funeral, I’ve never been more attracted to him.

He turns his bicolored gaze from the precipitation pelting the window. “It’s turning nasty out there.”

I exhale. “We have to talk.”

“Let’s eat first.”

“Baz—”

“It’s been a day. You must be twice as hungry as I am, and I’m starving.”

At the mention of food, my traitorous stomach thunders a growl, and Baz replies with an I told you so smirk.

Resolving to muster all resources to give me the strength to get out of the deal I made with this devil, I march off to the kitchen, cursing to myself. As I sling casserole dishes into the oven and fold the delicious pan rolls into foil so they can roast along with the leftovers, Baz straps on his brace and hops over to the counter. He reaches for an empty glass next to the open bottle of wine, fills it halfway and offers it to me.

I arch a brow. “Words first.”

“I’m sorry.”