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“He just had to give it to me early,” I say, blinking innocently at my twin.
Timothy freezes, shooting a look over his shoulder at Nic.
Somehow, Nic keeps a straight face. “I couldn’t wait to give it to her.”
Our eyes meet and there’s nothing special in the moment, nothing in the way Nic’s looking at me to warrant it, but something inside me shifts violently, realigns, and settles in a split second.
It’s like taking a lightning bolt to the chest on a blue-sky day: I love him.
I love Nic.
I’vealwaysloved him.
Oh shit.
Oh no.
This can’t be happening.
I toss my sketchbook into the laundry basket, along with all the paint supplies on the floor. I snatch the paints Timothy’s holding, belatedly realizing his response to the innuendos Nic and I shot back and forth was a loud “gross.”
I feel gross, but also…
Too many other things. Love, confusion, elation, fear, resentment, fear again—no wait, abject terror. Nausea, because how can I hide this from Nic? From my brother and the rest of my family?
I have to hide it and our little sex deal needs to stay a secret. My heart is going to break when Nic leaves and if anyone finds out, if they blame him…
I can’t stomach the idea of Nic not coming back every Christmas.
“That went too far. I need to shower,” I say darkly, heading toward the ladder. Timothy’s watching me, his eyes trying to bore through me, trying to ascertain if we’re joking or if something is going on.
“You started it,” Nic says in a flat, uninterested tone, and I know he’s acting, but he’s a shitty actor. He doesn’t feel the same. I’m the one who caught feelings—who caught them a long time ago.
What a fucking mess.
Chapter twenty-four
Jessie
Myfamily’sChristmasEveparty is the highlight of the season. When I was a child, it seemed like this glamorous event, full of pretty people drinking elegant cocktails, wearing sequins and suits. I dreamed of walking into the room in an over-the-top red ball gown, turning heads, and being swept into a kiss under the mistletoe by the most handsome man in the room.
Then, one year, Timothy scaled the massive Christmas tree in the great room, bringing the whole thing crashing down, and one of the guests declared it was folly for Celia Foley to throw a holiday bash with a son like Timothy. The Foley Folly was born. The guest list narrowed, growing more eclectic. The glitz gave way to a wild frivolity. Kid-me would’ve been disappointed, but adult-me loves it. Some nights have ended in drunken impromptu concerts by musician guests, others in one-handed cook-offs over crème brûlée. At some point, Timothy will do something ridiculous, but instead of turning up their noses, the guests will cheer.
And instead of gracefully descending the stairs in a knockout gown, I’m rushing to straighten my red and green tinsel cat ear headband before running out of my room, heels in hand so I don’t trip down the steps.
My heart trips instead.
Nic’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, toying with the garland wrapped around the banister and this feels like something out of my childish Christmas Eve party fantasy. His dark gray pants hug his thighs and cup his butt with such loving devotion that I’m guessing his tailor views him as a muse. The midnight blue button-down shirt is striking on him, setting off his pale complexion and making his eyes appear darker.
A warm, fluttery feeling takes flight inside me when he looks up and my stomach simultaneously pinches tight. I love him and he’s going to leave.
Goddammit. I thought I’d wisely used the last couple of hours to get my feelings under control. Guess I’m a dumbass for thinking a hot shower, a face mask, and a meditation podcast would make it all go away.
I can’t let it show. I tilt my chin up, then step gracefully down the stairs, pretending I’m in the sparkly red gown of my childhood fantasies. Inside, I’m a wreck. Seriously, am I dying? Why do I feel like my chest is going to explode? This can’t be normal.
He watches me, an amused smile on his face as I stop on the step above him.
I nailed it. This asshole has no idea I love him. Good job me.
