This was not our traditional Christmas. Not without Mom. Not without Dad. And when the hell was Amy getting up?

Christmas family favorites . . .

There was an idea. My mother’s Christmas dinner could induce a food coma. Basically a repeat of Thanksgiving, with even more sides: roast turkey with corn bread and sausage stuffing, Coca Cola ham, macaroni and cheese, duchesse potatoes, and candied yams. Good Southern cooking, y’all. For dessert, red velvet cake and pecan pie.

A memory slid into me like a knife—Eric’s stunned face as he looked down at the pie dish in my hands. “Jo. I love that you made pie . . . Nobody ever cooks for me.”

I closed my eyes. I needed another memory.

Okay. Not dinner. One year, my mother made this breakfast casserole, layers of egg-soaked bread and cheese, a cross between French toast and a soufflé that sat in the refrigerator overnight, ready to pop in the oven when we got home from church on Christmas morning. But after the service, my mother had learned that our neighbors, the Hummels, had lost all their food when their power was cut off for nonpayment of their electric bill. So our Christmas breakfast had gone to feed the Hummels. I’d never eaten that casserole, but I could still use the idea, right? Even the story. Very Christmassy. My father would approve. I could tweak the recipe later, swap prosciutto for the sausage, maybe, use Dijon instead of yellow mustard . . .

But no matter how I labored over the story, the warmth felt forced. Fake. I wasn’t feeling the Christmas mood at all.

The chime of the doorbell was a relief.

Not Dad, I thought as I uncurled my legs from the couch. My father wouldn’t ring. I crossed the living room, registering movement at the top of the stairs. Amy, getting up.

I tugged on the front door. “Trey! What are you doing here?”

“I came to bring you this.” He held up a leopard-print scarf.

I grinned. “Delivering presents early?”

As I reached to take it, Trey put a hand on my waist, moving in with easy confidence. I felt the scrape of his man-child stubble, the whisper of moist heat as his lips parted over mine.

I took a step back in confusion, aware of Amy trailing down the stairs. “That’s mine,” she said.

“You left it in my car yesterday,” Trey said.

“Thanks. I thought I lost it at the airport.” She looped it around her neck, her gaze cutting from Trey to me. “Where’s Daddy?”

“He had to go out. He got a call from one of his clients.”

Her face fell. “But it’s Christmas Eve.”

Her disappointment went straight to my heart, an echo of my own.

“The holidays are tough,” I said gently, parroting the explanation he’d given me. Defending him, the way our mother would have. “Especially for people with mental or emotional challenges.”

Amy sniffed. “You always did make excuses for him.”