An Ex for Christmas(50)

My heart squeezes with something I don’t know how to define, and I manage a smile. “You should know that your dog likes to cuddle in the middle of my bed.”

“I do know, because your dog likes to cuddle in the middle of my bed.”

As though knowing we’re talking about him, Rigby bounds into the kitchen, squeaky toy in his mouth, clearly waiting to see if it’s time to go to bed.

“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the stairs.

The dog needs no further encouragement, bounding up ahead of me and Mark.

I expect it to be awkward. Do we spoon? Does he want more sex? Is he tired and simply wants to sleep?

“I don’t have an extra toothbrush. . . .”

“I’ll live,” he says, peeling back the covers of my bed and plopping down. Rigby leaps up beside him, circling twice and then curling into a ball next to his shoulder.

I smile at the sight, realizing it’s one I could get very, very used to.

I put on pajamas, then brush my teeth and wash my face. When I come back into the bedroom, I turn out the light, expecting to crawl into the only free space, on the other side of Rigby.

But Mark’s nudged the dog over to the far side, putting himself in the middle. Wordlessly he lifts the covers, inviting me in.

I slip into his arms, and he pulls the blankets over both of us, then pulls me against him.

“I didn’t take you for a cuddler,” I whisper into the darkness.

He’s silent for a moment. “I’m not.”

I pat his forearm, which is wrapped around my waist. “Hate to be the one to tell you this, but this right here? Cuddling.”

“I meant that I’m not usually. Not before.”

“Not before . . .?”

I feel him smile against my neck, stubbornly refusing to answer. I smile, too, because I know what he’s not saying.

Not before me.





December 22, Friday Morning


The next night, when I sit at the bar at Cedar and Salt, it’s a very different situation.

For starters, Mark’s working again, but this time he’s behind the bar, which means I get to see him.

The night’s even busier than it was last time I was in, and the pre-Christmas enthusiasm is contagious. Mark pointed out that most people anticipate more time in the kitchen than usual on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, so they want to do as little cooking as possible in the days leading up to it.

“Darling!” I turn to see Ivy and her brood walk in the door, and give her a wave, having already decided to forgive her for telling Erika about my ex list. I don’t stay mad for long under most circumstances, and definitely not around Christmas.

She says something to her husband, who nods and ushers their kids to the host desk.

“Hi!” she says as she approaches, looking tired but happy in an off-the-shoulder blue top that makes her red hair even brighter than usual.

“What are we drinking?” She leans forward and inspects. “Dirty martini. That’s good. Real good. Too bad I’m on the club-soda train for the next few months.” She pats her belly. “Which means I’ll have to endure my in-laws visiting sans alcohol. Horror.”

I wince on her behalf. Her in-laws are good people but definitely the meddling type.

“We’re giving them Cory’s room,” she says, unapologetically eating one of my martini olives. “Which means Cory’s with us, which means . . .” She mimes a noose around her neck. “No sleep.”

“Poor baby,” I murmur, rubbing her arm.

“And I have Santa duties in a couple of nights. Ask me how many gifts I’ve wrapped.” She holds up her fingers in a zero shape.

“Do you need help? I can come over and watch the kids tomorrow. Or I can take them for ice cream after the parade tomorrow night. You’re going, right?”

She gives me a look. “Does anyone in Haven miss the holiday parade? Speaking of, how are the green tights? Flattering?”

“I’m not gonna lie, I look kind of adorable in my elf costume.”

Ivy glances over my shoulder, then smiles and waves. “Oh, speaking of elf costumes, you’ll have company. Erika’s an elf, too, right?”

I tense, but turn around and smile at Mark’s ex, who’s working the bar alongside him.

Erika pops a cap off a beer bottle, slides it across the bar to the guy to my right, then gives a good-natured eye roll. “Yeah, still can’t figure out how I got talked into that one. But Ken’s my godfather”—that’d be Ken Prismill, Haven’s current resident Santa—“and I’m not saying no to him, especially when he’s dressed as Santa.”

Ivy nods at me. “Kelly’ll be up there, too. My kids will be expecting double candy canes. Speaking of . . .” She glances over her shoulder to where her husband’s seating her kids. “Feeding time.”

Ivy stands and gives both me and Erika a finger waggle. “See you ladies tomorrow! Kell, I’ll text you about that present-wrapping offer!”

I wave at her, then turn back to the bar, preparing to make small talk with Erika, but she’s gone, and Mark’s in her place, leaning across the bar and watching me.

He nods at my now half-empty martini. “Another?”

The question’s casual. One he’d ask of any patron, one he’s asked of me a million times before when I’ve kept him company while bartending.