Page 54 of Season's Schemings
Lizzie and Adam snicker behind their hands. Because while Dot is clearly only trying to help, an eighty-year-old wizened woman with bad hips offering to join me on the bunny hill formysake is… well, humiliating.
“Oh, no. I’ll just—”
“Make Christmas cookies with me,” Seb supplies. He looks around the table. “As much as I love to snowboard, there’s a clause in my contract with the NHL that doesn’t allow me to take to the slopes.” He grins. “Guess my limbs are too valuable to risk breakages. And Maddie was nice enough to offer to forgo skiing today to keep me company. An offer I very much accept.”
“Oh, well in that case, of course. You newlyweds enjoy some alone time.” Dot taps her nose knowingly.
Adam looks miffed. At best.
And I feel… like I’m on top of the world.
Because I know that Seb doesn’t have a contract right now.
Which means he is choosing me over snowboarding today.
20
MADDIE
The first Christmas after my mom moved us in with my now-stepdad and Jax, I was mad.
Every single cell in my little six-year-old body was protesting—I was upset that Mom wouldn’t let me play my Disney Holiday Sing-Along CD in case it gave her new husband a headache, scared in case Santa didn’t know that I had a new address and my presents wouldn’t get delivered, and angry that I wasn’t allowed to hang my old snowman stocking on the front door knob like I used to at our old house. This new house had a fancy fireplace with four matching, white, fluffy stockings adorning it.
My mom was abandoning me, my stepdad was ruining everything, and my new big brother was gross and stinky. I was convinced that it would be the worst Christmas ever. A disaster. Catastrophe. Travesty of the highest order (yes, I was a dramatic child, if you hadn’t already gleaned that).
But then, on Christmas morning, little eight-year-old Jax came running into my bedroom at 5am in his Sonic the Hedgehog pajamas with a huge, overstuffed stocking in each hand. Turned out that inhishouse—which was now my house, too—you didn’t have to wait for the grown-ups to wake up to open the presents in your stocking.
My eyes grew huge at this news, and the two of us ripped into our stockings with glee. Then, we lay in my bed and stuffed our faces with the chocolate Santas we’d opened. By the time the adults finally got up and we could go downstairs and open the presents under the tree, we were both high on refined sugar and festive cheer, giggling like crazy.
The day only got better: not only did I have a brother to open presents with, but there was also a bowl of Ferrero Rocher we couldjust help ourselves to. Plus, the really big TV in the basement waswaybetter for watching our new DVDs than the small TV we had in our old house.
By the end of Christmas day, I crawled into bed happy and content, and with a new best friend in my stepbrother. Everything that had previously felt so wrong—so out of place and different, in a bad way—now felt like it had fallen perfectly into place. Therightplace.
This is what Christmas morning this year feels like.
“You sure you’re comfortable?” I put a hand on Seb’s shoulder. His big body is positioned in front of me, leaning against my legs on the sofa. He offered to sit on the floor when he saw that there weren’t enough seats in the living room for everyone. Thoughtful, as usual.
He reaches up and laces his fingers through mine, holding my hand in place. The simple sensation of his callused fingertips moving over mine draws shivers out of me.
“Definitely,” he says as he leans back to rest his head against my legs. His dark blond hair fans out over my tights, and I resist the urge to stroke the strands with my free hand.
Instead, I smile. We’re all gathered around the tree, sipping mimosas (well, Seb and I are drinking orange juice—neither of us has touched a drop of alcohol since the hangover from hell after our wedding), and waiting for Dot to distribute our gifts.
“And this one is for… Elizabeth,” Dot—clad in a very appropriate red fleece robe, a Santa hat, and elf slippers—says almost darkly as she checks the tag, handing over a robin-egg-blue Tiffany bag.
Diamonds for the black diamond skier protegé. How original (insert eyeroll here).
“Oh, Adam, you shouldn’t have,” Lizzie says in this breathy voice, fingering her sparkle-clad earlobes as she gazes upon the shimmering pendant necklace laying upon white tissue paper. “You got me these earrings last week.”
Adam smiles at her. It’s a nice smile. A smile I always liked. But it’s nothing like when Seb smiles, and his eyes go soft and crinkly, and his cheeks curl like parentheses around his mouth, bracketing the smile to show it off in all its glory.
“It’s Christmas,” Adam tells her. “It’s my job to spoil you.”
Seb’s fingers tighten on mine, and I squeeze back reassuringly. Gift-giving was one of the things I was most nervous about—seeing Adam and Elizabeth, happy and in love, as he showers her with tokens of his affection on Christmas morning. Just like he used to do with me. Not that gifts hold much importance to me—I value time and thoughtfulness over material things—but I was still not looking forward to it.
This morning, however, I find that I don’t give a flying fudge about what Adam or Elizabeth are doing. He could be composing sonnets to rival Shakespeare’s for her, and I wouldn’t bat an eye.
Why?