Jesus. Am I that bloody transparent?
“Hi, Alex!”
I leap back from Michael as Henry appears in the hallway. “Hi, Henry,” I mumble, sinking down onto the leather sofa and trying to ignore the amused look from Michael. My face heats as I mentally scold myself. What am I doing, thinking these thoughts about Michael? This is Christmas Day—with his son, for Christ’s sake. I need to behave appropriately.
Henry flops down on a chair and I turn to him with a smile. “Thanks for letting me crash your Christmas dinner.”
“I’m glad you could come.”
“I’m glad you could come too,” Michael murmurs as he heads back to the kitchen, his gaze briefly meeting mine. That sexy smile is still dancing on his mouth, and it makes my heart kick against my ribs as I raise my glass to my own smiling lips.
“Could you get that?” he calls when there’s a knock at the door. “It will be Agnes.”
“Hello, dear,” Agnes says as I open the door. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.” I take in her outfit—a festive red sweater, slim black pants, and tiny glass Christmas tree ornaments dangling from her ears. As I close the door behind her, gratitude swells inside me to be spending this evening with her and Michael and Henry when I could have been alone. I reach out to hug her and she squeezes me tight.
“Merry Christmas, Agnes,” Michael says affectionately when we enter the living room. He gives Agnes a kiss on the cheek before she lowers herself onto the sofa beside me.
“What a lovely man,” she murmurs, and I have to smile. I can see exactly why she sings his praises so much.
My gaze drifts over to watch as Michael sets a huge turkey down on the table. There’s something incredibly sexy about a man who can cook, which I’d never realized until this very moment. He turns to catch me staring and I blush. When I glance at Agnes, she’s watching me curiously.
“So, what’s new with you, Agnes?” I ask, throwing back the rest of my drink.
“Not a lot I’m afraid, dear.” She smiles as Michael hands her a glass of wine. “What about you?”
Michael holds out the bottle to offer me a refill, and I nod, avoiding his gaze. “Er, nothing. Nothing at all.”
“That’s not true,” he says. “You got some good news with your writing.”
Oh, right. My writing. Shit, since being in Michael’s presence I’d all but forgotten about that. It’s like seeing him has erased my mind of everything else. And that’s not good, is it? What a train wreck.
“Well, yes. There was something with my writing.”
“Wonderful,” Agnes says. “What happened?”
“I got asked to write some articles for a website, and if they do well then I might be offered a permanent job, writing a column for them.” I think back to my chat with Harriet, attempting to remind myself how important this is to me.
“How exciting!” Agnes says. “And what are you writing about?”
Michael sets a dish of green beans down on the table and pauses, listening. It’s like an elephant has barged into the apartment and sat down between us, sucking all the oxygen out of the room, and I feel myself wilt.
“It’s about being single,” I mumble. “And how it can be fun and fulfilling to live without a man.”
Her face lights up. “That’s fabulous! I’ve been without a man for years and I’m just fine.”
I give a half-hearted smile, glancing at Michael. His gaze slides from mine as he turns his attention back to the table, and I suddenly feel guilty talking about this with Agnes when I haven’t even given Michael an answer about what I want. Is he feeling as tortured as I am by this whole situation?
Or—fuck—is all this weird tension in my head?
“But you know,” Agnes continues philosophically, “being a single lady is only fun when there isn’t anyone special. Because if you meet someone special, that’s a whole lot more fun.” She winks at me and I look down at my glass, feeling my cheeks color.
She’s right, of course. Ever since Michael and I talked at Strand, I’ve been replaying his words—there’s nothing crazy about believing in love—and as much as my past experience tells me otherwise, I want to believe him. Which makes writing about being single harder, despite the fact that I desperately want this job. And that’s why I’m in this damn predicament.
“Is it ready yet, Dad?” Henry asks, wandering over to survey the dining table.
“Sure is, bud. Let’s eat.”
As we sit at the table, Michael carves the turkey. We share a smile and I feel myself relax. Of course Michael isn’t finding this as torturous as I am. I need to get out of my head and just enjoy the meal with my friends.
“So, Henry, what did you get for Christmas?” Agnes asks as we eat.
He beams. “Dad got me a bike.”
“Woah, what an awesome Christmas present,” I say, and Michael looks pleased.
“It’s super cool. Mom said I couldn’t have it, but Dad said I could.”
“Well, we have to make sure she’s okay with it too,” Michael says.
Henry screws up his face. “She’s so mean sometimes.”
“She just worries about your safety, bud. She’s not trying to be mean.”
Henry shrugs and stuffs a forkful of turkey into his mouth.
“Ugh. That woman,” Agnes mutters, and Michael and I both turn to look at her in surprise. She’s too busy loading turkey onto her fork to notice.
I glance from her to Henry and Michael, feeling the air around us thicken. Michael’s gaze drops to his plate and his shoulders fall almost imperceptibly. What am I missing here?
I’m about to open my mouth and ask, but decide against it. It’s not my business, and I don’t want to ruin Christmas by dredging up some long-buried family history.
Silence stretches between us as we eat, and I
