An Ex for Christmas(36)

“Where’s your scared dog?” I ask to get us to safer territory as I scan the yard.

“Your ninny dog is curled up by the fireplace, wanting nothing to do with the snow.”

“Did you know?” I asked, tipping my head up and letting the snowflakes fall gently on my face. “About the storm?”

“I heard people talking about it at the restaurant, but I didn’t know it was going to be this bad. Thought it was just them hoping to get a day off work.”

“The restaurant closed?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. No point in making the employees trudge in when most of the town won’t bother to go out.”

“Sorry. Guess your Christmas by the Bayou pasta dish will have to wait to make its debut.”

“Guess so,” he says shoving to his feet. “What about you? The snow cancel your plans for going into the city?”

“Thoroughly.”

Mark extends a gloved hand, and I take it with both of mine, letting him haul me to my feet. The bulk of our snow clothes makes us awkward, and I slam into him, my gloved hands still cupping his.

I glance up, and he looks down. “What about your list? The guy who lives in the fancy penthouse?”

I shrug and smile. “Guess my meeting with Stephen wasn’t meant to be.”

Mark nods, but neither of us moves away, and once again I have that strange, forbidden feeling that I want to keep touching him. And not with these damn gloves, but skin to skin, flesh to flesh.

I take a step back, then tilt my head. “How’d you know Stephen lived in a penthouse?”

“You told me.”

I frown. “Not recently I haven’t. Maybe back when he and I were dating, but that’s been years.”

Mark turns away. “I dunno, Kell. Guess that detail just stuck with me. Don’t make it weird.”

I let him off the hook as I follow him back toward the back porch, but now my mind is racing. Come to think of it, Mark always does seem to remember an awful lot about my relationship life. How long I dated each guy, and when. How and why we broke up. And, apparently, where they lived.

He pauses, kicking around in the snow until he comes up with my shovel, which has already become reburied by fresh snow.

“We’ll finish your garage faster together.”

“What about yours?”

“Done. I’ll do it again later tonight.” He retrieves his own shovel from the porch and heads toward my garage door.

“You don’t have to help me,” I say, following him through the now knee-high snow.

“Noted,” he says.

Then he starts shoveling without another word. I do the same, starting at the opposite side, until half an hour and much arm soreness later, we meet in the middle.

And by middle, I mean he did about three-quarters, but let it be stated for the record that he’s much bigger.

“Thanks,” I say, a little out of breath, as we survey our (his) handiwork.

“Anytime.”

“Come inside,” I say, nodding my head toward my back door. “I’ll make us a late lunch to thank you.”

“Better idea,” he counters. “You come to my place, and I’ll make us a late lunch.”

“But—”

“Kelly, I’ve had your cooking. The best thank-you you can give me is not to subject me to it.”

I laugh. “Fair enough. Do you have materials for a hot toddy?”

“Pretty sure I can rummage something up,” he says, lifting his shovel to his shoulder and turning toward his house. “A boozy beverage is probably the only way I’ll get through the awful holiday movie you’re going to make me watch.”

A snowy afternoon. With adult beverages. And Christmas movies. And my dog.

And Mark.

I follow after him, feet frozen, face numb, and heart so full I don’t even know what to do with myself.





Kelly Byrne’s Ex List: Version Six


Jack Chance

Joey Russo

Chad Morrister

Doug Porter

Stephen Hill

Adam Bartley

Colin Austin





December 19, Tuesday Afternoon


I give a happy sigh as the credits roll, humming along with the Beach Boys singing “God Only Knows,” which is the ending of one of my favorite holiday movies of all time.

If you’ve got even a tiny sprinkle of romance and holiday spirit, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Love Actually, baby. That ode to love and Christmas that I watch about eight times every December.

Burrowing deeper beneath the blanket Mark’s mom made, I reach for the remote and turn the volume down a smidge. “Who’s your favorite couple?”

“Hmm?”

Alarmed at the sleepy sound, I turn my head toward my best friend and give him a gentle kick when I see his eyes are closed. “Mark Blakely, tell me you did not just fall asleep during Love Actually.”

“I didn’t fall asleep during Love Actually,” he repeats dutifully.

I start to kick him again, but he grabs my foot. “I didn’t! I just closed my eyes for two seconds because the movie’s over.”

I narrow my eyes. “So who’s your favorite couple?”

“Out of the ten million?”