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I tell myself it’s because I’m already this deep and I want to get the sale through. I tell myself it has absolutely nothing to do with the look of joy that cascades over Cami’s face like an avalanche.

“Yes!” She claps, turning and setting the remote down. “Tonight, we’ll start with Elf.”

CHAPTER 14

CAMI

Atear slides down my cheek. I can’t help it. This movie always gets to me, especially at the end, when George comes back and realizes the entire town has rallied around him.

Without thinking, I glance down at the space between Patrick and me, my hand twitching to reach out and take his. It’s a ridiculous feeling. He’s sitting completely still, not a hint of emotion on his face as he watches the scene.

So far, the Christmas movies haven’t been much of a hit with him. He did laugh at the World’s Best Coffee sign, but he said The Grinch was too jingly and called The Miracle on 34th Street “psychological Santa Claus.”

My dad loves this movie, and it always makes him cry. That means it always makes me cry, too, because I’m not just watching George Bailey get his life back, but thinking about my dad watching it, too.

Around this time of year, I miss my family more.

Without thinking, I glance down at Patrick’s hand again.

It’s an errant thought. I’m just emotional because of the time of year. Because of the movie. Because of the look on Patrick’s face on Monday, when he came home to a meal in the kitchen and a person waiting for him.

Maybe I was reading into it too much, but before he tried to cover up the expression, it almost looked like…relief? Something between happiness and surprise. It made me think about what this place must be like otherwise—cavernous and sparse, like living inside a whiteboard.

Patrick says he doesn’t like all the decorating and fuss, but in quiet moments, I catch him looking up at the tree, or at the Christmas village on the fireplace. Today, when he got back from a late meeting, he came right in the door, hanging up his jacket and surprising me with a bottle of champagne he picked up on the way home.

It felt domestic. Him coming home to me. Me, being here and waiting for him.

Which is good, because that’s why I’m here. So we can get used to each other, and so we can be convincing as a real “fake” couple.

“That was good.”

I startle, realizing the movie has just ended, with the bell ringing and Clarence getting his wings.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, jumping and turning to face Patrick, a pillow clutched tightly in my arms. He jumps too, eyes widening as he turns to face me. “You liked it? Mr. Hates-Christmas Scrooge-Pants actually liked a Christmas movie?”

“Well—first, I object to every name you just called me. And second, it’s not exactly a Christmas movie, is it?”

I gasp, bringing my hand to my chest. “If my dad heard you say that…”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I’d want to go toe-to-toe with your family on anything Christmas-related. I wouldn’t make it out alive.”

“You’re right. So, do your siblings also not like Christmas? Is it, like, a family tradition? Did anyone break free?”

Patrick is quiet for a moment, then he reaches for the remote and turns the TV back to its ambient mode. He sends a grimace my way when he realizes I’ve set the screensaver to festive mode. Instead of the normal neutral pastels or landscape photos, the images that slide by show stockings, snowy landscapes, puppies in gift boxes, and ornaments.

“No siblings,” he says after a moment, shrugging as if to say doesn’t bother me. “I’m on my own. Pretty much always been that way.”

I sit with that idea for a moment. I have three sisters, and all my parents’ brothers and sisters all had multiple kids, too. At our family get-togethers and family holidays, there are cousins and uncles and aunts around every corner. No matter who hosts—even our richest family with the biggest and nicest homes—the house bursts at the seams. People have to take refuge in storage closets and will sit on roofs by the end of the night.

And I love it.

A Christmas without chaos wouldn’t feel like Christmas at all. Anything—graduations, weddings, birthday parties—wouldn’t feel like home without everyone there. Little kids running underfoot, older teens trying to slip shooters, someone’s grandma losing her teeth on a random table.

“Seriously, Cami, I’m used to it.” I must have a look on my face, because Patrick is raising an eyebrow at me. “I’m not some sad orphan. I’m a grown man.”

And yet, looking around this massive, empty house, orphan is exactly the word that comes to mind.

“A very successful grown man,” he insists, and the serious look on his face makes me laugh.