“Anyway, I’m going to hop on the subway now. Want to do drinks later this week?”

“Just text me when and where.”

“Okay, I’ll check my schedule and let you know. Bye, babe.”

“Bye.”

I hang up and slide my phone back into my purse before taking the stairs down to the subway and using my pass to enter through the turnstile.

While I wait on the platform for my train to arrive, I go back over dinner with Andrew. I don’t know why but that look on his face when I asked if he was going home for the holidays and whether he liked Christmas is stuck on repeat in my head, but I cannot forget it.

After I reach my stop and emerge from the bowels of the city, my phone chimes in my purse. When I pull it out, I see a missed call from my brother. I stop walking and let out a groan, my head falling back so I’m staring straight up at the dark sky clustered with skyscrapers.

With a sigh, I right my head and look at the screen, wondering what I’m going to hear when I call him back. Why is my brother calling? Did Andrew call him after I stormed out? For what purpose? I told him I wouldn’t tell my brother.

God, something about Andrew Wainwright feels like a stubborn splinter under my skin.

My brother and I aren’t particularly close. We live in the same city, me moving here years after him, but we’ve rarely hung out. Maybe it’s the six-year age gap or maybe it’s that he had a completely different childhood than I did. We talk probably once a month and see each other a handful of times a year. I love my brother and don’t have any ill will toward him. We’re just not that close.

I don’t want to wonder for days why he called and whether it’s about what I said to his friend, so I hit his number to call him right back. If it’s about Andrew, I’d rather deal with it now so that tomorrow, I can put the Scrooge behind me and enjoy my favorite season of the year.

“Hey, Finn. I missed your call?” I ask with a nervous hitch when he answers.

“Yeah, I was just calling to invite you to my place for Thanksgiving dinner.”

I open my mouth then shut it. It takes me a moment to recover from my surprise because in all the years we’ve lived in the same city as adults, he’s never once invited me to Thanksgiving dinner, let alone hosted. I didn’t even know he could cook.

“You’re cooking?” I clear my throat, hoping to hide the surprise in my voice.

The sound of his laugh reverberates in my ear. “Hell no. I’m having it catered.”