Chapter 14 Amanda

Chapter 14

Amanda

I’m hot.

I’m sweaty.

I’m sticky.

And I want to pull Dane into the coatroom inside Holly & Mistletoe, where we’re having lunch with my mom and grandma, and do all kinds of things to him and with him that should not be done in public.

Zero denying it anymore. After that kiss before we put our snow globe display together, coupled with accidentally seeing him stroking himself last night, I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to have sex with him.

Fully naked.

Skin on skin. Tasting him. Touching him. Exploring him.

The heat has fried my brain and ignited my libido.

Except I don’t think it’s the heat.

I think it’s him.

“I program the microcomputers that control automated processes for assembly lines,” he’s telling my mom.

That sounds like a job I would absolutely not be interested in doing, ever, and also like the sexiest thing in the world.

Just because he’s the one who said it.

Also? I’m starting to want to eat more vegetables after watching his “mostly vegetarian” diet for the past two days.

Have I ever thought farro looked delicious? I don’t think I have. But his farro bowl is so bright and colorful with all the veggies in it, and I keep resisting the urge to try some.

Which I wouldn’t be resisting if we were actually engaged.

“So you want to automate our secret family recipe?” Grandma says.

Dane covers my hand with his, an easy smile on his face. “I’ll do whatever Amanda wants me to do.”

Today’s swoon factor is dialed up to eleventy bajillion.

I like it.

And I hate it.

“I should probably master making gingerbread by hand first,” I joke, then cringe to myself.

I don’t want to make gingerbread.

That’s the whole point of Dane being here. And I just ruined his attempt at making Grandma reconsider that I’m the best person to take over for her.

“You’ll make good gingerbread,” Grandma says.

“I really don’t think—”

“When— if I give you the real recipe, it’ll do its magic. You’ll see.”

The real recipe?

Magic?

I slide a look at Dane.

He rubs his thumb over the back of my hand. “Amanda has her own magic.”

“You know, Grandma, when we get married ...,” I start, but she snorts and waves a hand.

“You’re not getting married.”

I don’t care much about rules and edicts in the general scheme of things. If they work for me, great. If they don’t, I push back.

Right now, that rule about respecting your elders is about to fly out the window.

Mom puts her fork down and shoots me a look that silences me, though. “I’m really looking forward to dress shopping,” she says.

The look Grandma gives her makes me glad our family doesn’t believe in evil eye curses from the head generation.

But Mom doesn’t bat an eyelash. “My only daughter having a Tinsel wedding instead of eloping like her brother? I’m taking her dress shopping. She could be marrying a serial killer, and if he made her happy, I’d support her.”

“That’s love,” Dane murmurs.

I grab my mulled wine and take too large of a sip. I don’t think she means she’d support me under circumstances that extreme.

I don’t think. “Maybe if I were dating a serial killer, you should intervene.”

She looks at Dane.

So does Grandma.

Oh, for the love of jingle bells. “Being a Silver does not make him a serial killer.”

“Are we sure about that?” Grandma asks with the gravity of a woman who’s seen stranger things in her time, which is ridiculous.

This is Tinsel.

The most scandalous thing to ever happen here beyond our family’s feud with the Silvers was a bad batch of eggnog taking out half of the actors in the annual Christmas village play when I was in high school.

“We haven’t had a serial killer in our lineage for at least eight generations,” Dane replies, though, equally serious.

I laugh and bump shoulders with him.

He doesn’t laugh back.

“We think eight generations is enough to dilute the serial killer genes,” he says instead. “Plus, it was a low-key serial killer. Barely ever featured on true crime podcasts.”

Lorelei never mentioned that .

But I suppose every friendship has its limits when it comes to divulging things like serial killers in your distant lineage. Especially when you know your parents and grandparents don’t get along.

Also, he could still be joking.

Couldn’t he?

“I love those podcasts,” Mom says reverently.

“Not appropriate listening for a gingerbread bakery.” Grandma sniffs.

“Which serial killer was it?” Mom asks, ignoring Grandma completely.

“The Egg Beater,” Dane replies.

Mom squeaks. “ I just listened to that episode. The guy who—”

“Oh my gosh, did I tell you how much I loved your snow globe?” I interrupt. “It never ceases to amaze me how many different ways you can incorporate gingerbread into all of the annual Tinsel decorations.”

I hate true crime podcasts. I don’t want to know how people murdered other people.

But also, did Dane know my mother loves them?

He’s winning her over.

And hopefully lying about who he’s related to.

But is he? Is he? Or is he divulging family secrets to gain my family’s trust?

I legit still can’t tell.

“Gingerbread is always the answer to all Christmas decorations,” Grandma says.

And for her, that’s true.

“I want to know how you made yours snow,” Mom says.

Mine and Dane’s ended up being his family’s old snowman holding hands with my family’s old elf while snow swirls around inside. Simple, but no one else has blowing snow.

“Engineering secret,” Dane says with a wink. “But if you want me to sneak into the warehouse and do it to yours, too, I can.”

“Don’t touch my snow globe,” Grandma says.

Mom sighs.

Then she slides a glance at Grandma before turning back to Dane. “Are you going to make your family’s snow globe have snow?”

“If they ask me to. They’re not entirely happy with me right now, though, so I don’t know that they’d ask much of me.”

The truth of that statement hits me in the heart, and I impulsively lean over and kiss his cheek.

And instantly regret it.

His cheeks are rough with stubble and he smells like the best parts of a summer night on the lake.

His gaze flickers to me, warm and kind, and kissing his cheek doesn’t seem like nearly enough.

I want more.

I want so much more.

“At least we’ll have each other,” I say to him.

“And me,” Mom says. “I can’t imagine abandoning my daughter simply because she fell in love with someone I wouldn’t have picked for her. It’s your life, honey. I support you. Even when you’re marrying into a whole family of serial killers.”

Grandma’s jaw works back and forth while she watches all of us.

You can feel the way she doesn’t want to react the same way as those damn Silvers , but she also doesn’t want to have to be related to one.

“Who’s invited to your wedding?” Grandma asks.

“The entire town,” I answer without hesitation.

That’s the point, right? For the whole town to see a Silver marry an Anderson. Plus, I don’t think we could keep them out even if we tried.

Except we’re not getting married.

No matter how pretty that ring looks on my finger.

I jerk my hand back under the table as I realize I’ve been fiddling with it subconsciously for I don’t even know how long.

That keeps happening today.

“My dad offered to officiate,” Dane tells me. “He’s an ordained minister.”

“Oh, because he got a certificate off of the internet?” Grandma scoffs.

“Yeah, a few years ago, his best friend was getting married. First time. In his fifties. Pete’s bride got really sick, and she was in the hospital, and they didn’t think she was going to make it, so Dad got ordained to help them tie the knot ASAP.”

“Oh my god,” I whisper as I catch myself fiddling with my ring again . “My heart.”

“She pulled through,” he tells me. “Dad did their wedding again when she was back on her feet. Really nice ceremony. He’ll do a good job for us too.”

The lies should feel awful.

I’ve never wanted to get married. In my teenage years, I dreamed about lighting up the Broadway stage and having lovers who showered me with lavish gifts.

And then when I started dating—for fun—I met too many men who thought they were the shit and that I’d be lucky to have them, instead of any men who made me feel valued in the same way that I valued and appreciated them.

Add in that I had to hide from my own family who my best friend was for most of my childhood, and the idea of bringing someone home for approval held zero appeal.

But it’s been so easy to slip into this lie that we’re having a wedding.

“That’s so sweet of him, and I know how much it would mean to you.” I don’t actually know how much it would mean to Dane beyond being an indication that his dad is willing to accept me, if not my entire family.

But I know it’ll set my grandma off.

In three . . . two . . . one . . .

“Then I’m getting ordained,” she says. “We’ll jointly do your wedding.”

“Aw, Grandma, that’s so sweet of you too!” She’s close enough that I can lean over and peck her on the cheek. “Thank you!”

“Are you having attendants?” Mom asks.

“No,” Dane and I answer together.

“We wanted it small,” he says at the same time as I add, “It’s not about the ceremony, it’s about the life we’re building together.”

“And what she said,” he says as I say, “And the small-wedding thing too.”

We’re vibing.

It’s fun. It’s unexpected.

And I like it way more than I ever thought I could.

I would date Dane. I would absolutely date Dane if we lived in the same city.

Not that I’d move for him. But if his work ever brought him to New York, and if he wanted to—which is unlikely, considering the mess I keep digging him deeper and deeper into here—then I’d do it.

“Gah, got something in my eyeball,” Mom says.

I tear my gaze from Dane’s—how often have we been smiling at each other like this?—and catch Mom wiping tears from both of her eyes.

“I wouldn’t have picked this for you,” she whispers, “but it’s so good to see you this happy.”

Dammit.

Now my eyes are watering.

But it’s not all fluffy rainbows and lovey-dovey heart reasons.

No, that’s heavy on the guilt.

Dane squeezes my hand once more.

Pretty sure that’s an I feel it, too, but look. We’re making progress. They might all actually get along before we’re done.

I hope so.

I sincerely hope so.

Because if not—I don’t want to know the consequences.