Page 18 of A Newport Christmess

The shower had taken the edge off the itch, but the hives hadn’t faded. If anything, they’d grown more pronounced. And now, my eyelids had joined in on the fun. Looking at my puffy-eyed reflection in the steam-filled bathroom mirror, I fully regretted my moment of weakness—the moment after I’d removed my sweatshirt while I waited for the water to warm. My natural instincts had taken over, demanding I rub my aggravating eyes. I should have heeded Landon’s counsel and restrained—at least until I’d rinsed off.

I was literally two swollen ears away from looking like Hitch after he’d eaten shellfish. I needed medicine—like, now. With a fresh set of clothes on and a towel still wrapped around my wet hair, I made my way downstairs to see if Landon had returned from the store.

The Christmas tree was gone, but there was no sign of him.

My phone’s ring cut through the silence, and I searched the kitchen table where the sound originated, wondering if Landon had somehow managed to get my number. A glint of light off the bottom of a propped-up metal cookie sheet caught my attention, and I lifted it to glimpse the phone screen. Mom.

I snatched up the phone, carefully repositioned the tray, and pressed accept before I realized it was a video call. Mom’s lovely face filled the screen, and then her eyes widened. “Quinn! What happened to you? Are you hurt?”

My gaze dropped to the thumbnail image of me in the corner, and I could see why she assumed I’d been jumped. “Did you know I had an allergy to pine trees?” I asked, forcing out an appeasing smile.

Her hand moved to her chest in obvious relief, though her worried expression remained in place. “No.”

I shrugged. “Turns out I do.”

“Oh, sweetie. You look awful.”

I positioned my head to place my hived cheek and neck on full display. “I don’t know. It’s kind of a good look on me.”

Mom didn’t smile at my attempt. “You need to go to an urgent care. I know things are tight financially for you, but Dad and I could help pay—”

“Landon will be back any minute with Benadryl. He said it will help.”

Mom’s head flinched back, and I instantly regretted having mentioned him so casually. Though Mom and I didn’t have much in common, our meager size meant we both shared a healthy dose of paranoia. “Who’s Landon?”

“Nikki’s brother. He owns the house.”

“The house you’re staying at?”

I nodded.

The emerging wrinkles on Mom’s brow deepened. “Is he staying there with you?”

I tried not to be offended that she thought me naïve enough to stay alone in a house with a man I didn’t know. “No. He’s staying in the apartment downstairs. He was just here putting up a Christmas tree when”—I gestured to my face—“this happened.”

Her expression finally relaxed. “Well, if the Benadryl doesn’t help, promise you’ll go in.”

“I will.” I paused, waiting to see if she would also drop a subtle reminder to keep my pepper spray on hand—the one the TSA had unfortunately confiscated—but she didn’t. “So did you need something?” I asked.

“When do you get home again?”

“The twenty-seventh.”

“Wait. What day is the wedding? On Christmas?”

“No,” I said, bracing myself. “The twenty-second.”

“The twenty-second? So why aren’t you coming home before Christmas?”

“I thought it might be easier for me to be away this year.”

Mom didn’t answer for a minute. “I understand this Christmas is going to be hard for you, but that’s why you should be with your family.”

“As much as I love being with everyone, I honestly can’t do it this year. I don’t have it in me.”

“What if we don’t go to Santa Barbara?”

I stilled. “What do you mean?”