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“Why not?” Jensen winks over at her, and there’s a definite hint of flirtation to his otherwise sarcastic response.

“Because.” She pauses with her wine glass to her lips. “That would involve coming within ten feet of you.” She smiles sweetly as the rest of us busy ourselves with our meal.

I take another bite of ravioli but steal a glance at our goalie, who grips his beer glass so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter in his hand.

Well, shit.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

LUNA

Ihate wrapping Christmas presents.

Mostly because as someone who can paint and is good artistically, folding paper in a pretty way has always escaped me. And it pisses me off.

But I could wrap Zach’s presents in a trash bag and I’d still love the process. In fact, I could wrap all these presents in front of me repeatedly: the “Boss Babe” flask I bought for Kate, the “Grow Your Own Garden” kit I got for Felicity, and the “I Love My Wife” coaster I got for Jon. Silly gifts but things that mean so much because of the people they’re for. It makes me wonder how much my dislike of wrapping was born out of those I was gifting to rather than the process itself.

I pick up the box of skincare I bought for my mom. I was hoping to give it to her in person before I left for Seattle, but since she didn’t answer my calls, I figured she wouldn’t want me showing up on her doorstep. So I bought a duplicate online and mailed it to her. I know she got it, not that she messaged but because the tracking notified me.

Looking at the tree, her gift to me sits underneath it. I should really wait until tomorrow, but I also want to open it alone, and since Zach’s out, I find myself walking over and picking up the perfectly wrapped gift in her trademark plain red paper with a gold bow.

But the thing is, my mom doesn’t really know me at all, and this present just confirms that. I’m a creature of habit, someone who feels safe with what I know. Sure, I can be a little off the wall at times, but I’ll never wear this perfume. She does though, and I know this because as I open the box and spray some into the air, Mom could be sitting right next to me.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I’ve never cried as much as I have these past four months, but this time it’s the realization that my mom and I will never be aligned. I’ll never have that close bond so many daughters have with their moms, no matter how much I’ve clung to hope that we could be. I also feel guilty and ungrateful for hating the present. It’s expensive, but it means nothing. No that’s a lie—it does mean something. Just the opposite of what I wanted it to.

Placing Zach’s and everyone else’s gifts neatly under the tree ready for when we deliver them later tonight, when Jon and Felicity are hosting a Christmas Eve dinner, I pad into the kitchen and begin fetching out ingredients to make a frittata for lunch because, apparently, we don’t eat them for breakfast in this house.

I’m busy stirring the base and singing badly to Shania Twain when there’s a knock at the door.

Close friends and family use the elevator since they have the code, so immediately, I head to the bedroom and throw one of Zach’s Scorpions hoodies on over my tiny crop top, and I switch out my sleep shorts for a pair of black leggings. The hoodie smells of him, and momentarily, I’m distracted by my borderline crazy urge to stand and inhale his scent and ignore the door.

But the knocking steps up to more of a thump.

“One second!” I shout from the other side as I take a deep breath and pull the door open with an ounce of trepidation.

Amie’s satisfied smile is the first thing I note. That and the glamourous stroller parked next to her in the hallway. How did she get past security? I guess she probably has a history downstairs, so it wouldn’t be hard to convince them.

“Santa is here to deliver your gift,” she drawls. Turning the stroller around, she uses it as a battering ram, running it straight over my feet as she pushes past me and into the living space.

Flipping around, her snarky smile turns evil, and I know answering the door will probably be my biggest regret this Christmas. Whatever “gift” she’s delivering is not going to be one I immediately want to unwrap.

“Where is he?”

“Out,” I say, inwardly wincing at the throb in my left foot.

“I can wait,” she says, throwing herself down on the couch.

I peek over at the sleeping baby in the stroller. I can only make out his face since he’s wrapped in blankets. But I know he’s a boy since they have been all over social media. She named him Justin. When I read it the first time, I wanted to throw my phone against the wall, but I was too busy saving Zach’s from the same fate. And the kicker—she then posted her “inspiration” behind the name: someone who will “always remain in her heart.”

“I want you to leave.” I stare down at her as she makes herself comfortable.

“You know, I forgot how amazing this couch is. I’ve spent so many nights on this thing.”

“When he found out you were cheating, I assume?” I throw back, making my way to the kitchen to continue making the frittata. I want away from her, but at least I can still see what she’s up to in the open-plan space.

“No.” She laughs mockingly. “He really enjoys horror movies, and we’d be up alllll night watching them. I’d get scared, so we’d cuddle before he’d carry me to bed.”

The blade from my knife slips down the bell pepper I’m cutting as I almost hit the floor at what she said. I thought those moments I shared with Zach were special. The movies, the fact that he’d hold me while I was scared shitless.