A Toast to the Good Times - By Liz Reinhardt Page 0,63

“But you’re getting better every day. That’s a good thing, right?”

I turn to face her and pull her close, blocking the wind from whipping at her as best I can. “What’s it gonna be like, with me and you, when we go back to Boston?”

She tries to pull back, but my arms are locked.

“I don’t know, Landry.”

“Why did you come out here to me if this wasn’t what you wanted?” I ask her.

She looks up at me, her eyes filled with tears. “I came out here to see the real Landry. To see you being a player, telling everyone to screw off, being selfish. I came here to prove to myself, finally, that the sensitive, smart, sexy guy I’d built up in my head for months was just a figment of my imagination. Just some romantic story hero I’d dreamed up. I needed to move on. I was so humiliated by you, and I wanted it all over, done, out of my head and my heart for good. But, when I got here, you’d become my dream guy. And, honestly, I didn’t expect it. So, joke’s on me.”

Her announcement is a little shocking.

“You came here because you wanted to end it?”

Her nod is slow and resigned.

“Now what?” I ask.

She averts her eyes and laughs a humorless little laugh. “I have to get up the guts to believe that maybe, possibly, what I wanted so badly is...real? And it’s time to accept that.”

I pull her tight and kiss her with fierce determination, because I’m afraid to say anything that may screw this up.

I have to make this work. I have to let Mila know she can trust me.

I’ve never been more nervous in my entire damn life.

Chapter 15

“So, you add the whole bottle of ginger ale?” Mom peers over her glasses and asks Mila.

Mila smiles, tightens the apron around her waist, and walks over to assist. She and Mom have been trading recipes all morning, and it’s equal parts creepy and everything I’ve ever wanted out of a holiday.

“Absolutely.” Mila nods and gathers her dark hair in a loose bun, securing it with two holiday pencils from a jar on the counter. “And don’t forget the strawberries.”

“Right, strawberries,” Mom repeats. She smacks her forehead dramatically and then grabs them from the bowl in the sink where they’d been rinsed earlier.

“Are you schooling a Murphy on how to make drinks?” I ask with a chuckle.

I wrap my arms around Mila’s waist from behind and bury my face into her neck, letting her hair nearly suffocate me. Mom looks over and gives me a wink. She’s playing along for Mila’s sake.

You can’t teach my mom anything that she doesn’t already know about drinks. And sickeningly sweet alcoholic punches are like the Horcrux of our family, but Mom is acting interested for Mila, and I couldn’t love her more for it.

“It’s called ho-ho-ho punch.” Mila crosses the room, uncorks a bottle of champagne like a champ, and empties it into the huge punch bowl, already full of sherbet and gingerale and whatever other hellacious ingredients Mila insisted on.

Because even though, as a bartender, this punch is everything that I’m totally against, this is Mila and that makes it cute as hell. So, I’m going to drink a big ass glass of that ridiculous ho-ho-ho punch and be goddamn jolly about it.

“It’s a tradition in my family,” Mila says, her voice low and tight.

She gives a slight, embarrassed shrug of one shoulder, and my oversized sweatshirt that she borrowed slips down a bit, exposing a sliver of soft, bare Mila skin. I swallow the growl that I feel bubble up in my throat, remembering the taste of that little spot of skin from last night.

Mom pulls the oven open and peeks inside. “Ham is just about ready. Landry, go help Paisley set the table.”

I do as I’m told and leave the room with a little skip in my step, pausing to smack the doorframe and smirk to myself.

Jesus, this feels good.

Being happy, I mean.

“You get the plates and napkins, I’ll get the silver and crap,” Paisley says around humming her favorite holy roller Christmas carol.

I cluck my tongue at her. “Jesus wouldn’t like you saying ‘crap’ on his big birthday, Squirrelly.” I ruffle her hair and she grunts and shakes me off. “Alright, what’s wrong with you?”

Her eyes cut toward the kitchen.

“Mila?” I ask.

I feel a pang of annoyance at my sister. Is she pissed that Mila and Mom are getting along and cooking Christmas