An Ex for Christmas(52)

“Not so much,” I say, meaning it. “But I appreciate the apology.”

“I regret it,” she says, staring at her shoes. “So much. I was drunk, like super drunk, and Mark and I had gotten in a fight, and . . .”

I hold up my hand to halt the confession. “I really don’t blame you for Doug and me breaking up, I promise. It was a long time ago—”

“We got in a fight about you,” she interrupts, meeting my eyes.

“I—” My brain stutters in confusion. “What about me?”

“You don’t . . .” Erika inhales and seems to consider her words. “You don’t know the effect you have on him. How much he orbits around you, and you just—”

“I just what?” I narrow my eyes. “I respect his relationships, and he respects mine. We’re friends.”

“I know,” Erika says, holding out her palms in surrender. “You always gave Mark and me our space when he and I were dating, and I appreciated it, but I’m just asking . . . Whatever’s going on with you two, don’t use him.”

“Now hold on,” I say, good and pissed now. “You’re the one that cheated on him. You don’t get to tell me—”

“I care about him,” Erika says quietly. “I never stopped caring, and I know I don’t deserve him after what I did, but you don’t get to break his heart.”

“I wouldn’t! I mean, he’s not at risk of that. We’re just—”

“Really don’t want or need to know details. I just want to plant one seed. Mark’s relationships—how long do they last?”

“What?” I let out a startled laugh. “I don’t know, I don’t keep track—”

“Start,” she says sharply, reaching for the door handle. “Start paying attention, and you’ll see that he’s only in a relationship as long as you’re in a relationship. When you’re single, he makes sure he’s single, too.”

I stare at her. “That’s ridiculous.”

Her smile’s a little sad. “Is it?”

She walks out, leaving me feeling totally confused, and more than a little shell-shocked.

She’s wrong. Mark’s had plenty of girlfriends. Plenty of breakups, too, but they don’t have anything to do with me.

I try to think of the timelines of his relationships, but truthfully I haven’t paid that much attention. Sure, I’m sure there are some overlaps among our breakups, but that sort of coincidence is bound to happen over the course of ten years, right?

I’m not even upset with Erika, not really. She’s just being protective. She’s obviously still harboring a thing for Mark, and who can blame her? The guy’s the best man I know, ridiculously good in bed . . .

I pause upon exiting the bathroom and shake my head at the direction of my thoughts. Suddenly fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling me into a dark corridor that leads to a rarely used side door.

I squeak in surprise and find myself pressed up against the wall, firm lips on mine, clever tongue teasing my lips to deepen the kiss.

Mark.

My arms lift to his neck, pulling him in with a soft sigh as I kiss him back eagerly.

It’s strange. Kissing him feels both wonderfully new and fresh, and yet comfortable and timeless, as though we’ve been doing this—or were meant to have been doing this—forever.

I feel something bump softly against my calf, and pull back slightly to glance down at a grocery bag.

“Going somewhere?”

He kisses my nose and grabs my hand, dragging me toward the door. “I’m hungry.”

“Convenient, then, that we’re in a restaurant. Or not,” I add as he pulls me out into the frigid December air.

I’m not wearing my coat, but I can’t bring myself to protest. “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm” and all that. The Rat Pack would be proud.

He releases my hand to pull car keys out of his jeans pocket, pushing the button. His truck beeps, and he opens the passenger door the way he has a million times. “In.”

Mark gives my ass a playful smack as I do as he says. He hasn’t done that a million times, but that too feels natural and familiar. Familiar has never felt as exhilarating as it does in this minute.

You pull him into your orbit.

I push Erika’s words aside.

Mark climbs into his side, but instead of starting the engine, he hands me the bag.

I look inside, and pull out a loaf of the restaurant’s delicious house-made French bread. There’s also a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, some sort of pasta in a to-go container, paper plates and utensils to eat it all, and . . .

I pull the last package out and whimper in ecstasy. “Are these the salted caramel shortbread brownies?”

He shrugs.

They’re my favorite, and he knows it. But he hardly ever makes them. Partially because he’s handed over most of the dessert duties to the staff, and even when he does make dessert, he claims these take too long. They have like six layers: a crust made with browned butter, caramel, chocolate, salty pretzel, something else, something else . . . anyway, they apparently take hours.

“You said you wouldn’t make them anymore. That they weren’t worth it.”

He looks at me. Looks away. “The look on your face right now is worth it.”