Page 15 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show

Our tree would be skinny, flung into the trunk on Christmas Eve, when the deals were the best, even though the pine needles would already be gold and flaking, and no amount of water could ever revive it. We would pick up Christmas gear from Walmart, usually a new box of the cheapest sparkling offerings mass produced in China, because our original boxes would inevitably not survive our move from rental property to even cheaper rental property to occasionally the projects, depending on how dependable Mom’s never-long-lasting-meager-paying job was.

“Good job, Ella.”

The windows face townhouses on Commonwealth Avenue. The ornate stone facades will look amazing even on the smallest phone screens.

“What about the floral crowns?” I ask.

Ella shows me the room where Luke will make decisions on which women will get through to the next round. He’ll half the ten women in the first week, then will eliminate one woman for the next three weeks. The finale will be on Christmas Eve and will be aired live where he will choose between two women.

The floral crowns are made from poinsettias, just like I asked, and I remind myself that this will be as wonderful as every otherSeeking Mr. Rightin the past. I know what I’m doing. I’m a professional. This will be amazing, no matter how much my stomach twists.

“You should pick him up now,” Ella says.

Right.

Ella knew I didn’t need a lengthy tour of the house.

“Sure,” I say brightly, because I’m so not nervous, because everything is really, really fine. “Tell the women to get ready.”

LUKE

I pace my room and fiddle with my bow tie for the umpteenth time. This is ridiculous. I so want to murder Troy.

The doorbell rings.

Shit.

I exit my bedroom and go buzz him in, my bow tie still loose. His footsteps pad up the stairs, and my heart speeds.

I swing open the door. Sebastian’s eyes flare, then he ducks his head down, pink spreading over his cheeks. He’s dressed in a tuxedo. The black color gleams against the blonde strands of his hair, every lock perfectly in place.

I swallow hard, then open the door wider and usher him inside.

He slips by me, moving as far away from me as he can, and his cheeks are the sort of pale new rookies get. He inhales though, and the glint in his blue eyes is hard, and his jaw does not quiver. “You’re supposed to be ready.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I should have sent makeup to you.”

“I don’t need makeup,” I grumble.

“You don’t know how to tie a bow tie?”

“I guess not.”

His lips twitch. “Well, luckily I’m a bow tie expert. You can always ask for help.”

“I can handle a regular tie fine.” I tug at the offending strip of fabric.

“Let me do it.” His voice goes soft, and he doesn’t quite meet my eyes, but I guess he’s focused on the black fabric that’s currently the bane of my existence.

“I think it’s too wrinkled. There should be an iron somewhere.” I squeeze my eyes. Ironing isn’t one of the things I do. Athletic wear is my preferred fashion.

“It’s fine.” His voice is soothing and professional and for a moment I want to sink into it, if such a thing were possible, but then he doesn’t even remember me. He hates hockey players. He told Ella.

Maybe I blended into the walls of the high school, as unmemorable as an inspirational poster or one of the trophies that sat behind glass.

“Probably the cardiologist would know how to tie a bow tie,” I mumble.