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“Um, well, I don’t really like cranberry sauce.” I struggle to come up with anything useful for her because my brain has stopped working. “And Christmas pudding. I’m not a fan of that. But honestly, you don’t need to go to any trouble for me. I’ll find something to eat.”
“Nonsense. Everyone deserves to have their favorites at Christmas. Do you like turkey?”
“Yes.”
“Pumpkin pie?”
“Yes.”
“Are there any vegetables you prefer or any you don’t like?”
She’s being so patient with me while I’m barely volunteering any information. Not because I don’t want to, but rather, because her kindness is overwhelming me. I’m not used to it from family.
“I’m not a fussy eater, Reese. The only things I don’t like are what I’ve already told you. And for future reference, I never eat fish. But I eat everything else. And I really love chocolate, so if Jameson ever tells you I’m annoyed with him, you could suggest he bring me chocolate. It might help him buy his way back into my heart.” I have no idea why I tell her this about chocolate, but I sense she’d love to know this kind of thing, so I do.
She laughs. “I’m making a note of it, darling. Thank you for this information. I’ll let you get back to work now. And if you want to come early tomorrow night, I’d love that, but I know your work keeps you busy, so not to worry if you can’t leave early.”
I already know I’m going to try to leave work early tomorrow so I can spend time with her. I’m so drawn to this woman.
I hang up from her and call Jameson.
He answers almost immediately. “Hi.”
Jesus, why must his voice affect me the way it does?
He’s said one word to me, over the phone, not even in person, and my body is all “Hello, Sir.”
It’s gotten out of control since I had sex with him.
The worst of it all?
I now want to sit in his lap more than I want to put him in a coffin. Even when he’s pissing me off, I’m imagining hurting him while he’s naked.
And he’s only slightly less of an asshole than before he fucked me, so it’s not like the sex caused a one-eighty for him and his treatment of me. I should not be thinking about that lap of his as much as I am.
“Your mother just phoned me,” I say.
“And?”
“And she asked me if I’m allergic to anything or if there’s anything I don’t like to eat at Christmas.”
I’m almost certain I hear him exhale one of his frustrated breaths. “Is this story going anywhere?”
“Yes, it’s going somewhere. You could have warned me that your family does Christmas dinner.”
“Warned? You say that like you need to prepare yourself.”
“I do need to prepare myself.”
“Why?”
I remind myself that Jameson doesn’t know anything about my childhood. That he’s not aware I only have bad memories of Christmas and don’t enjoy this time of year. “Don’t worry about it, but—”
“No,” he cuts me off, “tell me.”
“No, it doesn’t matter in the scheme of things.”
“Adeline,” he says, his voice filled with gravel and determination, and a little bit of frustration. “Tell me what it is about Christmas dinner that you need to prepare for.”
