Page 94 of Don't Be in Love

I stood still trying to figure out if this was some hallucination. Maybe I had been eating bad chicken all week. Maybe Nancy Meyers put hallucinogens in her films.

But if I wasn’t hallucinating, then how was I going to leave the building without him noticing and still make my pasta …

“She’s not here, pretty boy!” My neighbor’s sudden appearance jolted me—and the box of pasta.

“Maureen!” Dorian cheered.

Time to intervene. “I am so sorry, enjoy your Christmas Eve,” I apologized, swept Dorian’s coat up, grabbed his arm, and pushed him into the apartment.

Before I could shut the door, he was already speaking.

“Why haven’t you answered my texts?” he asked.

I kicked my snowy boots off and quickly peeled the numerous layers from my body, dropping them on the coat rack in the foyer.

Five minutes ago, I couldn’t feel my toes. Now my cheeks were splotchy like I was struck by rogue raspberries, and my hands wouldn’t dry no matter how many times I wiped them on my jeans.

“Because I told you I’d be busy,” I huffed, trying to avoid his eyes. I pulled my sweater over my head and then unzipped my jeans—

“Bloody hell, I’m not sober enough for this.” He covered his eyes and turned away.

I rolled my eyes. “You can turn around. I have leggings on under these.”

“Oh.” He twisted and braced the threshold as I let my jeans puddle around my ankles before stepping out. He cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you tell me you were spending Christmas alone?”

“I’m pretty sure my first answer also answers that.” I walked past him and moved down the hall into the kitchen. A tinge of annoyance followed as he strode behind me. I had plans for tonight: pasta and Jude Law. The last thing I needed washimhere. Missing my friends had begun to fill the space in my mind that was Dorian.

“It doesn’t look like you’re busy,” he argued.

I opened the box of farfalle on the island. “I’d say cooking dinner makes me pretty busy.”

“It’s Christmas, Adelaide.”

“Christmas Eve, actually. And I don’t like celebrations anyway, you know that.” Turning, I reached for the pot on the top shelf, my arm brushing against the Christmas garland.

Instantly, he was beside me, his arm sweeping past mine to grab the pot. It clanked against the countertop as he looked down at me.

“Why aren’t you looking at me?” he asked.

“I’m looking at you right now.” I hated it.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m in a rush, that’s why,” I exhaled, moving around him to fill the pot up in the sink.

“In a rush to do what? Spend the holiday alone like Maureen?”

“What’s wrong with being like Maureen?”

The water stopped. His hand sat atop the faucet lever.

“She has a cat and lives alone,” he responded.

“Sounds significantly better than being stuck with you.”

“Significantly?” he scoffed. “Really?”

“Relly,” I imitated his accent.