An Ex for Christmas(45)

I hadn’t planned on a snowstorm. Or most of my exes being assholes.

Or what happened last night with my best friend.

“Okay, sweetie, your dad’s telling me to hang up now. We’ll chat Christmas Eve, okay? What time are you going to Mark’s parents?”

I feel my stomach knot. How am I possibly supposed to properly enjoy pot roast with Mr. and Mrs. Blakely after I’ve seen their son naked?

“Not sure!” I say, faking a bright voice. “I’ll let you know when we figure out the schedule.”

And if I’m still invited.

I haven’t texted Mark since I woke up alone, with a stiff neck, on my couch.

Neither has he texted me.

Rigby’s gone, which means the dog followed Mark home, but I haven’t been paying attention to Mark’s back door to see if man or dog has come or gone.

Lies.

I’ve totally been paying attention, and nobody’s gone in or out.

I hang up with my mom and decide to go for it on the sweater for my dad. I select expedited shipping to make sure it’ll be here in time for me to celebrate with my parents on the 29th as our “belated Christmas.”

I get my mom a new Kitchen-Aid mixer, because hers is older than I am and has started to get sporadic. I’m debating between white and light pink when my back door opens.

I look up in surprise to see Rigby and Mark walk into my kitchen as they have a million times before. I brace myself for it to feel wildly different, only . . . it doesn’t.

I mean, it does in that Mark looks delicious in a dark green sweater and jeans, unshaven in a way that makes me wonder what his bristles would feel like between my thighs, but . . .

Mark nods in greeting, then goes to help himself to a mug of coffee.

He drops into the chair across from me at the kitchen table, the gesture so comfortable and familiar that my chest swells with relief that he’s not being weird.

I turn the laptop toward him. “White or pink?”

“White,” he says, without bothering to look at what we’re selecting.

I turn the laptop back toward me and add the pink one to the cart.

“Good decision,” I say as I enter all my payment info and check out.

When I finish, I shut the laptop and find him watching me. I smile. “Are you as sore as I am?”

He smiles back. “I guess you did tell me the other day you’re too old to be sleeping on couches.”

“As are you. We should have moved to the bed like adults.”

He leans forward. “Wrong. I wouldn’t have changed a single thing.”

I swallow. “Me neither, but we . . . probably shouldn’t do it again.”

I sound unconvinced, even to myself.

He sips his coffee. “Why’s that?”

Rigby rests his head on my knee, and I stroke his silky ears.

“Well . . . things could get weird.”

“They’re not weird now.”

I frown. “No. But they’re supposed to be.”

He shakes his head tiredly. “Should have known you’d overthink this.”

I reach across the table and grab his wrist. “We slept together.”

His gaze is hot as it drags over me. I’m wearing an ugly old sweatshirt and yoga pants, my hair in a wet bun. But the way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m wearing satin pajamas and perfume, with silky tresses.

“I’m aware,” he says.

“It’s . . .” I touch my tongue to my upper lip. “Sex makes this complicated.”

“Only if we let it.”

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “So what’s our plan? We just . . . fool around until one of us enters another relationship? Then what?”

Mark’s head snaps up, brow furrowing slightly as though he’s not following.

“We’ll never be platonic BFFs again, we’ll be friends who slept together.”

“We already slept together.”

“But—” I drum my fingers on the table. “Do you want to sleep with me again?”

“Yes,” he says, simply and without hesitation. Decisive.

I like it.

I like it too much.

I bite my lip. “Okay, how about—”

“No.” He takes another sip of coffee.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”

“You’re going to suggest we decide whether or not to sleep together again based on your Magic 8 ball.”

My jaw drops. “How did you—”

“I’m not making this decision based on a children’s toy, Kelly.”

“Okay, okay,” I say soothingly, slowly pushing back from the table. “You don’t have to.” I jump to my feet and dash to the stairs. “But I need some guidance,” I call out, taking the stairs two at a time.

My Magic 8 ball—one of them—is on my dresser where I set it earlier after it guided me through the tricky decision of pink thong or black bikini panties. The damn ball led me toward the thong, which is unfortunate, because . . . well, comfort.

But she’s never steered me wrong before, so why would she start now.

I pick it up. “Should Mark and I sleep together again?”

Confession: I already asked her this morning. The answer both times? Maybe.