When a person was with either of his parents, it was easy to feel like the center of their world, but as soon as they were out of sight, they were out of mind. It wasn’t personal. It worked the same for money or meetings or friends.

“Both of my parents grew up without a real concept of how to get things done in the real world, about the importance of paying bills when they were due, or getting forms for school signed, or all the logistical stuff it takes to make a household function. They’re good people, but they need someone to take care of that for them.”

Chelle kissed his chest above his heart. “And that someone was you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t mind.” Sure, sometimes it was exhausting, and he’d skipped out on trips or experiences or even owning a fish because he couldn’t take care of one more thing, but that’s just the way it was for the responsible, oldest child. “It’s just easier that way, and I can make sure everyone is taken care of.”

She lifted her face and looked up at him, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. “That explains your mansplaining.”

He stopped mid-stroke, feeling a bit like the room had gotten brighter somehow. “I like to help.”

“And who helps you?” Chelle cocked her head in question and pursed her lips, as if trying to stop herself from saying something else.

“I’m fine,” he said, the words coming out more defensive than they would have usually. “I’ve got everything and everyone taken care of.”

Chelle let out a soft sigh and snuggled against him, so there really was no daylight getting between them. “You’re a good guy, Nash.”

It wasn’t “I love you.” It wasn’t “I want to make this fake marriage real.” It wasn’t forever. Not yet. But he’d figure out how to make that happen over the next few days. He had to. There was no way he could sit back and watch Chelle walk out of his life for good.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chelle

Two days later, Chelle was back home with Nash, both of them in ridiculous matching pajamas with cats in Santa hats, blasting the holiday hits playlist while rethinking her choice of buying silver tinsel that now seemed to be everywhere except hanging from the branches of the sad, little, droopy tree that had been the last one left at the corner stand. Tinsel was in her hair. Sir Hiss had stolen clumps of it, piling it up in the highest part of his cat stand. Mary Puppins had enough of it on her to look like she was wearing an avant-garde doggie outfit.

So yeah, tree trimming this year was pretty much chaos. Chelle couldn’t be happier about it—and no, that wasn’t the spiked eggnog talking.