Adeline clenches both fists in the air, shouts, “Noooooo!” and both kids dissolve into giggles.
I turn away, close my eyes, and clench my jaw, because I’m going to feel like a total asshole when I lie to my family about our breakup.
Dinner is, of course, chaos. Sugared-up kids don’t have great manners at the best of times, and suffice it to say that these particular kids haven’t always been taught the ins and outs of etiquette.
Therefore, there’s a lot of, “Bryce, please use a fork,” and “Taylor, mashed potatoes are not an artistic medium,” and “Ryan, if you don’t like something, please spit it into the trash, not onto the table.”
Even so, Adeline seems like she’s having a great time. She talks gardening with my mom and history-themed day trips with my dad, which means that I feel progressively worse and worse about the lie.
When dinner’s over, they remember the snow, which does nothing to calm the chaos. The four kids jump up and down and beg and plead with my parents to go out and run around in it, even though it’s already past their bedtime.
They give in. Snowsuits are donned. Some fit and some are too big, and the boots are the same way because fostering kids means never quite being fully prepared, but doing your best anyway.
After they spill into the back yard, my dad lumbering after them, I turn to Adeline.
“You wanna go out there?” I ask.
“No,” she says, and laughs. “I’ve had enough snow for today, thanks.”
“That’s all right,” calls my mom. “We can start on the eggnog. You two want rum in yours?”
We exchange a quick look.
“No thanks,” I tell my mom. “I’ve still gotta drive Adeline back home.”
My mom turns around and gives me a horrified look.
“You can drive in this,” she says in a tone that expects no argument.
“I’ve got the redneck mobile,” I argue anyway.
“Sweetheart, you know Burnley County only has one snowplow and I am certain that Jim Trelson is already three sheets to the wind on Christmas cheer,” she says. “There’s no way anything is getting cleared tonight.”
“It’s got very big tires,” I remind her.
She grabs two glasses of eggnog and brings them over.
“Adeline, please, I’d be more than happy for you to stay the night,” she says. “We’ve got plenty of space, and Grady always makes his special waffles on Christmas morning.”
There’s total silence in the house, the only sound the shrieking of the kids outside. Adeline just looks at me, her face unreadable.
“Belgian waffles,” I say, hoping she’s tempted. “With strawberries and whipped cream. They’ll knock your socks off.”
I know prolonging the lie is the worst thing I could do right now, but I can’t stop myself. I want her to stay. Despite the whole phone number for the dump thing.
“Not to mention my mom’s sausage biscuits,” I coax. “C’mon.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you,” she tells my mom.
I grin because I’ve won.
“Absolutely not!” my mom says. “It’s no inconvenience at all, the back house is already all made up because you never know who’ll drop by for Christmas. Here, have a tipple and I’ll go grab you something to sleep in.”
My mom pours rum into our eggnog, corks it, and then she’s gone.
Adeline turns to me.
“Is that okay?” she asks, sipping. “She’s right about the roads, I’m sure they’ve only gotten worse since we got here.”
“Of course it’s okay,” I tell her. “Cheers.”
We clink our glasses together and I take a sip: sweet and cinnamon-y, the slight bite of rum.
“It’s not weird?” she asks.
“The back house has bunk beds,” I tell her, and she laughs. “What?”
“Just that your mom’s having us sleep in bunk beds,” she says. “Classic mom.”
“Well, there’s two rooms,” I say. “One’s got a queen, one’s got two bunk beds. I had a lot of sleepovers there as a kid.”
“Ah,” she says, and I swear she blushes again.
When the kids come back inside, they pile their snow stuff by the door, troop upstairs, and get into pajamas. My parents, being my parents, obviously got them all matching Christmas pajamas.
It’s really, really adorable.
Once my mom’s done taking pictures, they pile onto the couch and I read them The Night Before Christmas. Then they demand more, so I read them The Polar Express, and then they beg so I finish it off with How The Grinch Stole Christmas, buried under a pile of half-asleep children.
Finally, my parents herd them back upstairs and before I know it, Adeline and I are together on the couch.
“How do your parents do this?” she asks, tilting her head against the back. “I’ve been here for a couple of hours and I’m exhausted.”
“I have no idea,” I say, honestly. “They love it, though. My house was always like this growing up, too.”
“There’s so much chaos,” she says.
The floorboards above us creak. It sounds like someone jumps off a bed.
“You’re sure you want to stay over?” I ask.
“I’ve got nowhere to be,” Adeline says.
“I can still take you back —”
“Do you want me gone?” she asks.
“No,” I say, honestly. Maybe too honestly. “I want you to stay.”
She shifts on the couch, pulls one foot beneath her, and now her knee is touching my leg.
“Then quit asking,” she says.
Chapter Seven
ADELINE
Our eyes lock. I hold my breath. Grady’s eyes flick to my lips, back up to my eyes, his leg shifting against my knee.
Then we’re kissing again.
I don’t know who made the first move, but his mouth is back on mine, his hand in my hair. His mouth is firm and soft and hot, and I press myself against him as his slight stubble scrapes along my chin.
It’s too hot under this sweater, and I paw at his, trying to feel his body underneath. I pull my other foot onto the couch, drape my leg across his lap, sit up straighter.
Suddenly he pulls at my knee and then I’m straddling him, right there on his parents’ couch, next to a giant pile of presents for children. Feet run across the floorboards above and we both pretend not to hear as I also pretend not to notice his erection.
That is, I pretend until he grabs my ass and pulls me against it, and then I roll my hips and bite his lower lip and his fingers dig even harder into me.
I nearly have a heart attack when Frosty the Snowman starts playing, sitting up with one hand on his chest, looking around to see who caught us.
Then I remember. Grady’s laughing, making a face, and I relax.
“Right,” I say.
“Right,” he says, and reaches for me again.
“Yeah, I’ll go grab it,” his dad’s voice says at the top of the stairs. “Everybody hold your horses.”