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“Yes.” Martha nods.
It’s not that simple.
A cat?
A CAT?!
It’s a flat-out lie. And weird. Absurd is more like it. Nobody in the whole Bechtel clan knows the meaning behind the name of this house they cherish—or now covet—so much.
HENRY
I can’t focus on work.
Merry cluster-fuck Christmas to me.
Serena is unpredictable and therefore untrustworthy. Worry strangles me every second I’m not home—well, at her house. Will she go off on her conspiracy theory about Afina to my mom? Will she let it slip that we are not in a real relationship? As is, we have to fake going to bed together every night. When my mom shuts her bedroom door, Serena goes to the attic to write. And I think—I hope—she spends most of the day, while I’m gone, falling asleep in the middle of taking notes in her secret little notebook.
“What are you working on now?” I slow my movements when I hear Mom’s voice coming from the kitchen as I untie my work boots.
“I’m telling the story of a woman from a century ago who died of influenza eighteen months after she met the love of her life. She was a dressmaker in Cincinnati. They met when he came into her shop to order a dress for his mother. It was love at first sight. He built a house for her much like—”
Oh shit …
I fake a cough so they hear me while I tear off my coat and hat.
“Is that you, Henry?”
“It is.” I poke my head around the corner. Cutout cookies, piping bags of frosting, and holiday sprinkles cover every inch of counter space. Cinnamon and vanilla fill the air along with Christmas music from my grandpa’s old turntable in the adjacent sitting room.
“How was your day, honey?” Mom smiles.
Serena smiles too, but it’s not comforting like Mom’s.
“Fine.” I wash my hands.
“There’s a powder room sink for your hands, Henry,” Mom scolds. “I taught you better than that.”
She did. But I can’t leave them alone for a second. Had I stopped to fix Mrs. Andrew’s clogged drain today instead of tomorrow, the atmosphere would be much different. Seconds count.
Ignoring Mom’s reprimand, I reach for a decorated cookie.
“No. Take one of those,” Mom says. “Serena decorated them. Eat her cookie. It will make her feel good after an afternoon of hard work in the kitchen.”
Serena’s cheeks bloom deep red. She’s thinking about me eating her cookie. She’s thinking it will make her feel good.
I’d do my best.
My gaze shifts from blushing Serena to my mom. It’s the only way to keep my dick in check. “Mmm …” I take a bite of the cookie. “Serena’s cookie is good. Sweet. Moist.” I lick my lips and glance down at the sprinkles that drop to the floor. “And a little messy.”
Serena bites her lips together and focuses on the piping bag in her hands and the snowman she’s tracing in white.
“Kitten, you look a little tired. Have you had a nap today?”
Serena’s gaze shoots to mine, nose wrinkled. She’s not a fan of “kitten” or maybe pussies in general.
Oh well.
“Serena has narcolepsy. I don’t know if she’s mentioned it,” I say to Mom.
