Oh hell. I put my hand over my stomach to try and calm myself. I feel like I’m about to throw up.

My finger hovers over his name . . . shit. I close my eyes and press call.

I pace back and forth as it rings. Maybe he’s busy. I mean, it’s Christmas Eve, of course he’s busy.

“Hello,” his deep voice answers.

Oh fuck.

“Elliot, hi. It’s Kate.”

“Hello Kate.” There is chatter in the background. “Let me go somewhere quiet so I can hear you.” I hear him walk and then a door close. “That’s better.”

I screw up my face. “Thank you for the flowers, they’re beautiful.”

“Like you.”

I smile goofily. “Are you always so smooth?”

He chuckles. “I do my best.”

We fall silent.

“What are you up to?” he asks.

“Nothing much, just wrapping presents. You?”

“I’m at a cocktail party at my parents’ house.”

I imagine the rich and famous people that he would mix with; his life and mine are complete opposites.

“I won’t keep you, I’ll let you get back to the party,” I whisper.

“No rush, I’d rather talk to you. These people are dull.”

I smile as I pace back and forth, so nervous that I can’t stand still.

“What are you doing for Christmas Day tomorrow?” he asks.

“My brother and sister are coming over, what about you?”

“Just at my parents’ house in the Hamptons. Tristan cooks.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he fancies himself as a bit of a chef. He’s done it since he was about eighteen; the meals have thankfully gotten a lot better since then.”

I smile as I imagine the gorgeous Tristan Miles in an apron.

“Ten days until I see you,” he whispers.

What?

My heart somersaults in my chest. “I can’t wait,” I whisper back.

We fall silent again.

“Go back to your party.” I smile.

“I don’t want to.”

Oh . . . he’s just so . . .

“You’ve made my day,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

I close my eyes as excitement thrums through my body.

Is this really happening?

“Merry Christmas, Kate Landon,” he whispers in his deep, sexy voice.

I smile broadly. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miles.”

We hang on the line for longer than we should, neither of us wanting to hang up.

Eventually the phone clicks as he ends the call and I throw it onto the bed and twirl on the spot in glee.

Holy fucking shit.

We sit around the Christmas table and eat in silence.

The food is delicious, the carols are on in the background.

But it’s hard—there are two people who should be here. Every year I hope this is the last bad one; every year I’m sadly disappointed.

It’s all I can do not to run up to my room and cry on my bed. I don’t want to do Christmas if it makes me feel this empty.

It just isn’t fair.

Elanor, my sister, and Brad, my brother, eat in silence too—I know we all share the same feelings on this one.

We are all so different. Elanor is classically beautiful, she’s sophisticated and smart and wears only designer clothes. She mixes with the elite crowd and has a swanky job in imports, always traveling the world with some new exotic boyfriend. My eyes roam over her: every man who has ever laid eyes on Elanor has fallen hopelessly in love with her.

My dad used to say that she was blessed by the gods. Even her birthmark is perfect, a small, pink love heart just below her ear high up on her neck. How is it possible that a birthmark is sexy?

Brad is more like me and appreciates the simple things in life. He’s a physiotherapist and has just opened his own practice here in London. He had a girlfriend for six years but they recently broke up. He said that they became best friends and the fire just fizzled out between them. I thought they were going to be together forever; the thought of fires fizzling out between two people so in love scares the crap out of me. If it could happen to them, it could happen to anyone.

“This is beautiful, Kate.” Brad gestures to his food. “It really is.”

“Thanks.” I try to make conversation. “The potato is Grandma’s recipe.”

Brad nods, too welled up with emotion to reply.

We usually hang out with our extended family, aunts and uncles and cousins. But three years ago, we decided to be on our own at Christmas, so if we wanted to be sad, we could. There is nothing worse than pretending to be happy when you’re dying a little inside.

“I’ve found a buyer for Mum and Dad’s house,” Elanor announces.

I frown. “We aren’t anywhere near selling, it’s going to take six months to clean out everything.”

“I’ve done it.”

“Done what?” Brad replies.

“Cleaned out Mum and Dad’s house.”

“What?” I frown again. “What do you mean?”

“It’s been six years, someone had to do it.”

“We told you we wanted to do it together.”

“Well, you two have been fucking around for forever.”

“Because we weren’t ready,” I stammer. “Where is their stuff?”

“Gave most of it to charity.”

I fall back in shock as my eyes well with tears. If she hit me with an axe it would hurt less. “Tell me you’re lying.”

“What good is it to us? I donated it all.”

“What?” I cry as I jump from the table. “How could you?”

“You better be fucking lying,” Brad growls. “We told you not to touch their house.”

“Somebody had to do it. I’m sick of waiting for you two.”

“Where are their things?” I cry.

“I told you, I donated a lot of it.”

I get a vision of all Mum and Dad’s precious belongings sitting in a charity shop. “Where?” I begin to cry uncontrollably.

“Calm down,” she huffs. “I kept the photos.”

“What about my things in the attic?” I ask.

“Gone.” She shrugs casually without a care in the world.

I think of all Mum’s cross-stitch and crockery, her clothes and all the things I wanted to pass down to my children one day, and I cry harder.

How could she?

“I cannot believe you would do this to us . . . Actually, I can,” Brad yells. “You think of nobody but yourself. You’re the most selfish person I’ve ever met. You know damn well Kate wanted those things.”

My chest is wracked with tears and I just need to get away from her.

I run upstairs to my bedroom and slam the door.

I can hear Elanor and Brad having the screaming match of all screaming matches and I put my pillow over my head to try and block out the sound of fighting.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

Merry fucking Christmas.

Hi Pinkie,

Merry Christmas,

How was your day?

I can hardly read his message through my swollen eyes. I’m not going to drag him down.

It was great.

How was yours?

I screw up my face in tears as I wait for his reply.