Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“Want? God, no.” Tom doesn’t shudder, but I sense he has to hold himself back.
“But,” he continues, “it’s either this, or you completely ruin my holiday by making me feel guilty for leaving you in the hospital.”
“Yeah, because you’re clearly the victim here. I hope this hasn’t been too hard for you.”
Tom’s expression doesn’t show even a flicker of sympathy. “Please,” he says. “It’s hardly my fault you insist on rolling around in cabs while simultaneously refusing to wear a seat belt in one.”
My current predicament means I have no comeback to that, so I settle for scowling at him.
He scowls back, then reaches out toward me, his hand fumbling in the thin hospital sheets, and the brush of his fingers against my hip does something to my stomach that it shouldn’t.
“Hey,” I slap at his hand. “Your days of being able to cop a feel are long behind you.”
“Thank God for that,” he mutters as he comes up with the little remote to call for assistance and pushes the button. “Let’s hope they can make these instructions fast. We’ve got a plane to catch.”
Reality starts to sink in, as does panic.
Just a moment ago, I couldn’t have pictured anything worse than spending Christmas in the hospital, but somehow this plan . . . spending Christmas with my in-laws, ex-in-laws . . . ex-husband . . .
And being reminded of all that I had and all that I’ve lost?
I can’t. I won’t.
Especially since Harry still hasn’t called to make me partner, and considering my all-out obsession with that goal is part of what caused me to lose everything in the first place . . .
“I’ll try my luck with cookies and Jell-O,” I tell Tom, snuggling into a bed that is anything but snuggly. “Hand me the TV remote, would you?”
“Come on, Katherine,” Tom says, exasperated. “You don’t seriously want to stay here. I know you don’t. And I know why you don’t.”
I flick my eyes toward his, and for a moment, our gazes hold. Tom is one of the few people who knows why I hate Christmas. One of the few who understands.
It makes his kindness all the more unbearable.
“Come on,” he says again, his voice soft. “We can survive each other for forty-eight hours. Can’t we?”
I squint my eyes. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
“Yeah, me neither,” he admits. “But let’s try it. It’ll be like one-on-one holiday Survivor,” he says, his tone returning to its crisp, businesslike clip. “We can make a competition out of it.”
“I do like the prospect of winning,” I muse, mostly to myself. “But I also have a problem.”
“Just the one?” He lifts an eyebrow as his gaze travels over the mess that is my entire being at the moment.
Fair point.
I point to the plastic bag with my belongings. “It wasn’t only the bra that didn’t make it. Whatever sliced my back also sliced through my coat and my blouse.”
“You know, I thought of that,” Tom says, returning to his suitcase, where I just now notice something bright red draped over the handle. “I got you something in the gift shop.”
He holds up a red sweatshirt with the biggest Rudolph face I have ever seen. The nose is a sparkly red pom-pom the size of a baseball.
I groan. “You really do hate me.”
He grins. “I really do.”
FOURTEEN
KATHERINE
December 23, 2:09 p.m.
When the doorman at my apartment building rushes to open the door for Tom, it’s impossible not to notice that his eyes go comically wide before he quickly resumes his usual default poker face.
The reaction was clearly shock. Less clear is what Melvin was most surprised at:
The fact that my hair is matted to the side of my head by a bit of blood?
Or perhaps the fact that I’m wearing a garish Christmas sweater paired with my usual stilettos?
It could also be the fact that I’m in the company of a man.
Who are we kidding. It’s definitely that last one.
It’s not that I’ve been a nun since the divorce. I’ve dated. A couple volatile flings sprinkled throughout. I even had a perfectly pleasant relationship with a nice man named Andy for four months until I realized that perfectly pleasant is the equivalent of boring.
But generally speaking? My romantic life is not exactly thriving, and male visitors are definitely not the norm.
The why isn’t exactly a secret. I learned early on that my particular personality type?
Not likable.
I’ve also been called another certain word often enough to know that it really hurts the feelings most people don’t think I have, so I’ll simply say it rhymes with glitch.
So, yes, I’m apparently not likable.
And let me tell you. In our society? Above all things, a woman damned well better be likable.
I specify woman because there is a double standard, and it drives me crazy.
Sure, we women are allowed to be smart. Strong is applauded. Beautiful is required. But apparently, the only way a woman can possibly be a good person is to never be too blunt, never have too rough an edge.