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“Yeah, Mason,” John says, his voice slightly crackly through the phone’s speaker. “Hurry up with the gift, man.”
John may notphysicallybe here, but Mr. Control Freak couldn’t fully miss Christmas, so he called Mom and insisted on a video chat. Mom’s phone is propped up on the mantel, where John can look down at us all.
Talk about Big Brother. Literally.
“Now, now—the both of you,” my mom scolds. “Let Mason do it the way he likes. It’s his present.”
“It’s going to be midnight my time when he finishes,” John says.
“No one forced you to go to Spain,” I shoot back.
“Actually, yes—my boss did.”
“I thought you said you requested the position.”
Mom claps her hands. “Children! It’s Christmas! Peace on earth, goodwill to siblings. Hush.”
I settle back on the couch, crossing my arms, and John takes a sip of his spiced sangria, which he said is what people drink in Spain on Christmas. It feels slightly odd that he’s drinking alcohol, considering it’s only ten o’clock in the morning here and we’re still in pajamas, but whatever. It is five o’clock somewhere, and that somewhere right now is Spain. Meanwhile, we’re drinking Mom’s famous hot cocoa with homemade whipped creamandhomemade marshmallows. I think in another life, she’d be a baker, not a teacher who inspired me to be the same. She is magical in the kitchen.
John makes snoring sounds, which we all ignore. I go back to watching Mason, which—Christmas or no—is a favorite pastime of mine. Even back when he was more gangly and awkward, I was drawn to him. And the man today is … anything but gangly.
Somewhere around his sophomore year of college—not that I was paying close attention, ha ha—he finally settled into his height. Mason is a veritable giant. The kind of tall where he needs to buy pants at specialty stores. And while as a teenager, he shot up so quickly that he had trouble keeping weight on even into college, which is when John first brought him home. It took some time—and a lot of calories, I’m assuming—but Mason has completely filled out now.
To the point that he gets stopped for autographs when he goes out to eat because people assume he must be some kind of pro athlete. Which he could have been, I think, if he liked basketball as more than a hobby. With his build, his square jaw always peppered with the exact right amount of stubble, his prominent cheekbones, and those unfairly lashed eyes, he’s truly a work of art. The kind of man people notice.
Well, guess what, people? I SAW HIM FIRST.
John clears his throat, and I startle, shooting a glare toward Mom’s phone. My brother has his eyebrows raised, like he caught me practically drooling over his best friend and wants me to know he disapproves. I swear—my brother goes to Spain and Istillcan’t escape from his micromanaging busybodiness.
But then he says, “Just open the freaking gift, dude. This is painful.”
Phew. Seems like that throat-clearing was about Mason’s slow gift opening and not me ogling.
“Yes, please, Mason,” I add. “Put us out of our misery.”
“O-pen it! O-pen it!” John chants.
Mason ignores us both. Mom gets up to refill her coffee in the kitchen.
Is Mason hoping to recycle the wrapping paper? Does he not want to hurt its feelings?
Or is he just trying to kill me by taking as long as humanly possible to open this gift?
Without thinking, I reach over and snatch the gift right out of Mason’s hands. He glances up at me with surprised brown eyes. Not just brown. No—Mason’s eyes are a rich, deep gold. Like sunlight streaming through warm, dark honey laced with cinnamon.
Not that I’ve spent years coming up with that exact, right description for them or anything. Nope.
Those gorgeous eyes narrow. “Chelsea,” he warns, “can I have my gift back, please?”
“Don’t listen to him,” John says. “Open it, Chels. He clearly needs help.”
“You two are incorrigible,” Mom says as she returns, but she’s laughing.
She knows full well there’s nothing wrong with me. This is just another goofy Chelsea moment, and since I inherited ninety-nine percent of my personality fromher, she has no room to talk. I share Mom’s love for children, her blue eyes and strawberry blond hair, and her quirky optimism. I didnotget her ability to bake, unfortunately.
“I’m sorry about my children, Mason,” she says.
“Hey!” John says. “Whose side are you on?”
