I open the closet and shuffle all my old clothes to the side until I find what I’m looking for. At the back, hidden behind everything else, rests—abandoned and forgotten—my last attempt at joining my family’s festivities with any real enthusiasm.

Blair forced me to buy this dress five or six years ago. She’s a fan of Christmas like everybody else and had me convinced the bright red fabric would help me get into the holiday spirit. The dress was gorgeous, and it fit me perfectly, so I bought it and brought it home to wear on Christmas Day. Then, my mom—or my sister, I can’t remember—majorly pissed me off with a stupid remark, which put me off any attempt of “joining in” the celebrations. And so my dress-for-a-funeral-on-Christmas-Day tradition was born.

I take out the dress and press it against my body, studying the design. Square-cut neckline with cap sleeves, and a high, fitted waist with a peplum frill detailing. The cut of the skirt is midi length, and the whole shape has a tailored fit. Too much? And more to the point, will it still fit me? Only one way to know.

In a fluid motion, I shed the black dress and replace it with the red one, glad the zipper closes all the way up. Still, it fits a little tighter than I remembered. To make sure the seams won’t burst apart the first time I sit, I try a couple of squats. Not exactly comfortable, but doable. Actually, the snug fit has the positive effect of pushing up my boobs, making them seem bigger. Yeah, not bad. Not bad at all.

I’m about to take it off when the door opens and Diego walks in. He’s wearing camel chinos and a deep-green sweater that makes his eyes pop. With his hair all messy as if he’s just finished drying it, and still slightly damp and curly around the nape, he’s breathtaking.

Insecurities gnaw at my flanks; this guy can’t possibly like me. I wish I was still wearing the black dress; I’d feel less exposed. Diego, however, doesn’t seem to mind the red one. He gives me a once-over and low whistles. With two quick steps, he closes the distance between us, wraps his arms around my waist, and pulls me in for a kiss as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

So, kissing each other is fair game now, apparently. No complaints here. Still, as we pull apart, I can’t help but blush and, not knowing what to say, I use the first lame excuse to avoid saying anything. “I… err… need to go dry my hair.”

“Sure.” He winks at me and gives me a gentle push toward the door. “I’ll catch you downstairs; your dad asked me to help him bring in logs for the fire.”