Page 28 of Unwrapped

I straighten up, my shoulders tensing. “Sophie⁠—”

“I don’t want you to apologize like it was some terrible thing you did to me. Because that’s not how it felt. Not to me.”

The floor tilts under my feet. This is not how this conversation is supposed to go. This is not the script I wrote in my head. Since reading Sophie’s diary, I've understood that some things between us were getting confusing, but there’s a difference between a misguided fantasy and me . . . actually touching her.

“My feelings about you are more complicated than you realize,” she implores.

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “Don’t do that.”

She flinches.

“This is confusing. I get that. But I’m your stepfather, Sophie. That doesn’t change because—because of whatever happened last night. Whatever you think you’re feeling right now, it’s not real.”

She blinks. “It is real.”

Fuck. “It’s a reaction to a confusing situation. That’s all it is.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand anything.”

“I understand more than you think I do.”

“Do you?” She stands up, shoving her stool back from the island. “Because I have these feelings, Vince . . . I don’t know. I can’t control them and they’re real. And last night was—” She stops herself. “Never mind.”

“Look, honey,” I say softly. “You have to understand that what you’re . . . suggesting⁠—”

“I’m not suggesting anything! I’m just trying to tell you the truth.”

“Okay, okay.”

We stand there for a minute in silence. I just want to reach for her, to pull her into my arms and tell her that everything is going to be okay, but I can’t because the last time I held her, I also pressed my cock up against her ass.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” I say finally.

She sighs and picks up her coffee mug, taking a sip and making a face. “It’s cold.”

“I’ll make you a fresh one.”

“Thanks.”

I take her mug to the sink and dump it, then start a fresh pot. We don’t speak while the coffee brews. The silence is heavy, but I don’t know how to break it. When the pot is done, I pour her a cup and hand it to her.

“We always watch It’s a Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve Eve,” she says suddenly. “Remember?”

Right. Last year was the second time, and she’d made me promise it would be our tradition.

“Don’t say no,” she says before I can say anything. “Please. I know things are weird right now, but I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose everything because of one night.”

God, this poor kid. What have I done?

“Of course,” I say quickly. “Of course. It’s tradition.”

She nods, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. “Good. That’s good.”

Then: “I should go shower,” she says, picking up her coffee. She leaves the kitchen. When I’m alone, I cover my face with my hands.

Well, that’s it, then. We had the talk.

And nothing is getting better. It’s getting worse.