Page 42 of Go Back to December

Finally, he says, “Stick to the truth. As few details as possible.”

I look helplessly at the door. “Baz, they’re all here for you. You don’t need me.”

“We have a deal,” he insists with low and lethal calm, warning me what’s at risk.

The café. And my only path to the Lightman. “What if I can’t hold up my end?”

He watches me from the edge of his enormous bed, his face a blank mask that I suspect holds an ocean of emotion behind it. “Are you backing out?”

And give him the satisfaction of owing me? Never. “I’m not backing out.”

His nod is curt, a rough handshake. “If we have to get creative with answers, I’ll handle it. Just get me through the next couple of hours.”

He tracks my progress across the room, his expression wary, and when I sink down next to him on the bed, he barely moves a muscle.

“So what’s the hustle, Major?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

“We’re going to have to cooperate, or we’re both screwed.”

“The Prisoner’s Dilemma.”

“We need some sort of distraction. An activity.”

“Preferably not snowshoeing.” He tilts his head at his brace.

“A game.” If it’s one thing Clan Johnson can rally around, it’s a healthy competition. “Whatever it is, you and I will be claiming victory.”

“Obviously.” He fights off a smile. “Fine. We’ll find a game for them to play.”

When I wake, I don’t know where I am.

It’s so dark and quiet and comfortable, it takes several minutes for me to remember that I’m in Baz’s spare bedroom. Wrapped in a luxurious cocoon of five-hundred-thread-count sheets.

I never sleep this soundly in a new place, but today wore me out. Dinner was loaded. No one could land on a sustainable topic of conversation. Luiza barely looked up from her phone, and every five minutes, Annabel or Mark or Peter would get up to chase after Oscar.

The mood grew lighter when Baz suggested a game of Forfeit. To win their Christmas presents, each Johnson had to surrender a truth, a dare, or a favor to the person who was gifting it. Luiza is on the hook for babysitting dates that should last until Oscar graduates, and Annabel connived Sofia into confessing that the flan she was passing off as her mother’s recipe did, in fact, come from the caterer. Baz looked like he was genuinely enjoying himself until it was his turn to receive his gift.

“Well, miho.” Sofia smiled. A garment bag wrapped with an enormous bow dangled from her long fingers. “Truth, dare, or forfeit?”

“Forfeit,” Baz said without hesitation.

Sofia and Peter exchanged a conspiratorial glance. “You must forfeit one night to visit Annabel’s installation at the lake.”

Baz’s expression turned Sphinxy, but I caught that vein laboring in his neck. He wagged his head without accepting or refusing the deal.

On the bedside table, the small digital alarm clock blinks 2:49 a.m. My phone pings.

Major Tom:

Are you there, Ground Control?

In the dark, I smile to myself, imagining him stewing in the boots, desperate to move. I wait a good five minutes before I cross the hall.

A halo of faint light from the bedside lamp casts a shadow over half of his face. He studies me through hooded eyes and frowns. “You’re going to freeze.”

My temperature runs warmer at night, so flannel pajamas aren’t an option, but it’s not like I’m waltzing into Baz’s bedroom scantily clad. The tank I’m wearing is thick and loose enough to cover my top curves, and my shorts extend halfway down my thighs.