Christmas By Design

18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Gemma

The kitchen is an absolute disaster, as it always is on Christmas Eve. My mom has her famous pot roast in the oven, and vegetable ends litter the countertops. Where there aren’t remnants from her cooking dinner, there’s flour strewn in white drifts across every other available surface along with trays of about six different kinds of Christmas cookies. Nova won’t let go of my neck, so I sit down at the kitchen table with her in my lap, facing me. It allows her to get a better grip with her legs around my middle, but at least my arms get a break.

I grab a recently-frosted sugar cookie off a nearby tray and take a giant bite. “You know Santa only needs one or two cookies, right?” I direct the question over Nova’s shoulder to my mother, who is currently squeezing little green trees out of a cookie press.

Mom gives me a long-suffering look. I say something about her cookie-pocalypse every year, and every year, she says the same thing she does now: “Santa’s not the only one who needs a little Christmas cheer.” Except this time, she follows it up with, “You look like you could use some cheer, yourself.”

It only takes one more bite to finish of the cookie. “I mean, I could use a hot shower after sleeping on the floor of a freezing cold house,” I grumble around my mouthful.

“Mmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “You seem more off than that.” She tilts her head as she studies me for a moment. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with that handsome man who brought you home, would it?”

I just about choke on the cookie. “What? No.” Nova peels her head off my shoulder to look at me. She can’t possibly understand the question, but her wide eyes are soaking in the conversation, nonetheless. I cough to dislodge the crumbs from my throat. “No, Mom. I’m tired, that’s all. Sleeping on a hardwood floor in front of a fireplace isn’t as cozy as it sounds.”

“Mmm,” Mom hums again. She clearly doesn’t believe me, but she’s quiet for a minute as she presses two more trees onto the cookie sheet. “You should have invited him in for a bit.”

She can’t help herself from adding that last bit. She wants me to have a partner because she knows I want that, too. I have ever since I met Nova’s father. I really did think he and I would be together forever, but the idea of a baby was too much for him. He left, and I don’t know where he went. Haven’t heard from him since. Dodged a bullet there, it seems. But even if the bullet didn’t hit, it still left a hole.

If only it were as easy as inviting Beckett in. Letting white-walls-and-clean-lines Beckett into this mess would have been a terrible idea. The man can’t even handle a teal refrigerator; I’m sure being covered in flour by a toddler at the same time as meeting my parents would have been a disaster. It was for the best that he said no.

Still, my heart hurts a little. “I did,” I mumble. Mom’s eyebrows shoot up slightly as I clear my throat. “He had things to do.”

Mom nods silently, and if she knows I’m lying, she doesn’t show it. In fact, she doesn’t say anything more about it. She just brushes her hands on her apron and joins me at the table. She reaches out for Nova, who grips me even harder, having sensed she’s about to get pulled away.

“Come on, Star-baby. Let Mommy go so she can shower.” My mom gently tries to pry Nova from me, but she’s got her pudgy little arms wrapped so tightly around my neck that I can barely breathe.

“Why don’t you and Grammy get some sprinkles on those cookies so we can bake them for Santa?” I ask, rubbing her back.

“No.” The word is high-pitched and staccato, leaving no room for argument.

I squeeze her a bit tighter. “I know. I missed you too, baby. But I stink.”

Nova’s head pops off my shoulder again. She sniffs a few times, then wrinkles her nose and giggles. “Yucky Mommy.”

I boop her nose with my pointer finger, and she laughs again. “Go with Grammy and get the cookies ready, okay? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She reluctantly lets my mom take her. They start singing an off-key and, frankly, unrecognizable Christmas carol, and she’s laughing in no time.

Maybe, after a shower, I’ll have cleaned Beckett’s rosemary scent off of me, and I’ll be able to laugh through Christmas Eve, too.