Cruel Winter with You (Under the Mistletoe collection)

“I deserve you least of all. But I want you the most. And I won’t give up. The lengths I’m willing to go to . . . One day, I’ll show you.”

You—you clearly have an idealized concept of me that—”

“Idealized?” He laughed. His hands came up to my cheeks. “Jamie, if anyone is aware of your flaws, it’s me. You have the worst taste in TV shows. When you get angry, you get quiet instead of communicating. You care way too much about pleasing the people around you, especially your dad, who absolutely takes advantage of it. You become sleepy and basically useless past nine thirty at night. You have this odd belief that you cannot tell people how you really feel, or you’ll be saddling them with the weight of the world and they’ll leave you. But it’s okay. I see these things. I’ve always seen them, and I love you because of, not despite, them. Because they’re what makes you you. And I love who you are—I love
how thoughtful, and observant, and compassionate you are. I love that you never form an opinion before gathering all the available information. I love that your sense of humor is so dry, I never know if you’re joking. I love how gorgeous you are when you laugh, and I love the way your brain never stops working. I love you

“Listen, Jamie, date us both. I can deal with that. And then choose the better guy.”

I huffed. “You seem awfully certain that I’d choose you.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I really am.”

“Can’t help it.” His smile took my breath away. “Little Jamie Malek—prim and proper, by the book, speeding toward med school since first grade—is now telling me to blow up my whole life. It’s making me feel a certain kind of way.”

Mrs. Compton frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Cigarette break.”

“But you don’t smoke?”

He grinned wide. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. “Let’s pretend that I do and that I’m not just trying to get away from you.”

Mrs. Compton frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Cigarette break.”

“But you don’t smoke?”

He grinned wide. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. “Let’s pretend that I do and that I’m not just trying to get away from you.”

makes my heart leap and my body glow and my brain rest, and that’s not something I could bear to have and then let go of.

. “Um, would you like to come over for Christmas dinner?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“No.”

“Got it.”

He eyes me expectantly.

“What?”

“I’m waiting for the violent abduction I was promised?”

“I don’t mind,” I say. Minding a little.

A lot.

Meanwhile, Tabitha and I—the dutiful, well-behaved, overachieving daughters—can barely afford appliances of the non-bedazzled variety