Page 62 of If You Were Mine (After We Fall 3)
“I tried to push Quinn away too,” Jaime said through gritted teeth. “As soon as I realized I was in love with him.”
“Theo’s not in love with me,” I said wryly. “Not even close.”
“Maybe not,” she admitted, “but even the first little inkling of feeling might be enough to spook a guy like him.”
“Maybe.”
“I think he’s just scared.” Margot’s voice was confident. “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he comes back and apologizes within a week. By New Year’s.”
“I’ll take that bet,” I said, thinking of the hundred bucks Theo had given back to me at breakfast yesterday.
I’d gladly give it to Margot if she was right, but I had a feeling I’d be a hundred bucks richer come January 1st.
* * *
Christmas Eve at my parents’ house had all the usual sparkle, but I wasn’t feeling it.
I ate all the traditional foods she served every year, the glazed ham and the potatoes au gratin, the caramelized onion tarts, the roasted brussels sprouts with balsamic, the freshly baked bread. But it was oddly tasteless this year. Even Grandma Flossie’s chocolate pudding lacked the usual flavor, and I hadn’t gotten the texture quite right.
“Sorry,” I mumbled when my sister commented on it. Then I said what I was really thinking—a first. “You know, you could always offer to make it if you think you can do better.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, pushing the dish away from her. “I shouldn’t eat it, anyway. I need to lose some weight for a part I just got.”
“That’s wonderful, honey,” said my mom. “And Claire, don’t worry about the pudding. Your mind was probably elsewhere when you were making it.” Her eyes twinkled.
“Like where?” Giselle wondered, dipping her finger into the pudding she’d just rejected and sucking it clean.
“Like on her handsome new boyfriend.”
Giselle’s mouth dropped open. Even my dad looked up from his pudding, and there wasn’t much that could distract my father from desserts.
“Boyfriend?” my sister echoed.
“Yes. She’s been hiding a hunk from us.” My mother giggled, her cheeks rosy from the wine.
Speaking of wine, I reached for mine and took a big drink.
“You have?” Giselle asked, clearly shocked. “Who is he?”
“His name is Theo,” my mother bubbled, “and he’s just adorable. I went over there Sunday and he was at her house helping her redo the kitchen cabinets. Although I do think you should have gone with white, dear.”
“I like them dark,” I said, trying to think of a way out of this without having to say there was no Theo anymore.
“So what does he look like?” my sister asked.
“So handsome,” my mother gushed. “He owns his own business, he’s from Connecticut, and he might have even gone to Yale.”
“Really?” My father perked up. After football and birds, Yale was his favorite thing to talk about.
“He didn’t go to Yale,” I said.
The table was silent, and I took a deep breath, preparing to tell the truth and be pitied. Or mocked.
And then.
“He went to Ohio State. Played football there,” I added, giving my dad a smile. Theo had mentioned he played football in high school and college, although he hadn’t elaborated. I had no idea if he’d even gotten a degree or not.
“Did he?” My dad beamed. “That’s a good program.”
