“And you’re sure you don’t mind picking us up on the twenty-seventh?” my mom asks for the fifth time since I answered her call ten minutes ago.

“Yes, I’m positive,” I say, squinting at my laptop screen to see if the sweater I’m debating buying for my dad is purple or blue. The color’s called royal, which can go either way, you know? And if it was for a woman, I’d simply say, “What a pretty color!” and not stress, but my dad is not the type of guy to embrace a purple shirt.

I told myself I’d go into the city to shop today, but it’s snowing again. Just a light snowfall this time, and the trains are still running, but I can’t get excited about trekking down Fifth Avenue in the cold, so I’ve settled for a morning of online shopping and trying not to think about you-know-who and the naked you-know-what.

“Okay, sweetie,” my mom says, finally deciding to believe me. “Your father and I are so excited to see you, even though we’re having the best time. And you’re having a good time, too?”

I smile at her too-casual tone. I’d bet anything she’s still stressing about my “Christmas alone” but that my dad had made her promise not to fret on the phone.

“I’m not alone, Mom. I was at Cedar and Salt last night, everyone was there. I’ve had coffee with Ivy, lunch with Kate, and I can’t so much as go to the grocery store without someone inviting me over for Christmas dinner.”

“Oh, you’ll accept someone’s invitation, won’t you?”

“Definitely,” I say, just to make her feel better. It’s not that I don’t want to go to anyone’s house for the holiday; it’s just that until yesterday, I’d sort of been holding out hope that the woman in the train station was right and that I’d have my one true love to snuggle with on Christmas morning. And that we’d sip champagne by the tree, not bothering with presents, because each other is the only gift we need . . .

Yeah, that’s a bit much.

The point is, I haven’t made plans for Christmas, because I’d envisioned this Christmas vacation going very differently. I thought that I’d merrily unite with all of my exes, laughing through happy memories until I found the one that took my breath away. I thought I’d have a topper for my damn tree.

I hadn’t planned on a snowstorm. Or most of my exes being assholes.

Or what happened last night with my best friend.

“Okay, sweetie, your dad’s telling me to hang up now. We’ll chat Christmas Eve, okay? What time are you going to Mark’s parents?”

I feel my stomach knot. How am I possibly supposed to properly enjoy pot roast with Mr. and Mrs. Blakely after I’ve seen their son naked?

“Not sure!” I say, faking a bright voice. “I’ll let you know when we figure out the schedule.”

And if I’m still invited.

I haven’t texted Mark since I woke up alone, with a stiff neck, on my couch.

Neither has he texted me.

Rigby’s gone, which means the dog followed Mark home, but I haven’t been paying attention to Mark’s back door to see if man or dog has come or gone.

Lies.

I’ve totally been paying attention, and nobody’s gone in or out.

I hang up with my mom and decide to go for it on the sweater for my dad. I select expedited shipping to make sure it’ll be here in time for me to celebrate with my parents on the 29th as our “belated Christmas.”

I get my mom a new Kitchen-Aid mixer, because hers is older than I am and has started to get sporadic. I’m debating between white and light pink when my back door opens.

I look up in surprise to see Rigby and Mark walk into my kitchen as they have a million times before. I brace myself for it to feel wildly different, only . . . it doesn’t.

I mean, it does in that Mark looks delicious in a dark green sweater and jeans, unshaven in a way that makes me wonder what his bristles would feel like between my thighs, but . . .

Mark nods in greeting, then goes to help himself to a mug of coffee.

He drops into the chair across from me at the kitchen table, the gesture so comfortable and familiar that my chest swells with relief that he’s not being weird.

I turn the laptop toward him. “White or pink?”

“White,” he says, without bothering to look at what we’re selecting.

I turn the laptop back toward me and add the pink one to the cart.

“Good decision,” I say as I enter all my payment info and check out.

When I finish, I shut the laptop and find him watching me. I smile. “Are you as sore as I am?”

He smiles back. “I guess you did tell me the other day you’re too old to be sleeping on couches.”

“As are you. We should have moved to the bed like adults.”

He leans forward. “Wrong. I wouldn’t have changed a single thing.”

I swallow. “Me neither, but we . . . probably shouldn’t do it again.”

I sound unconvinced, even to myself.

He sips his coffee. “Why’s that?”

Rigby rests his head on my knee, and I stroke his silky ears.

“Well . . . things could get weird.”

“They’re not weird now.”

I frown. “No. But they’re supposed to be.”

He shakes his head tiredly. “Should have known you’d overthink this.”

I reach across the table and grab his wrist. “We slept together.”

His gaze is hot as it drags over me. I’m wearing an ugly old sweatshirt and yoga pants, my hair in a wet bun. But the way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m wearing satin pajamas and perfume, with silky tresses.

“I’m aware,” he says.

“It’s . . .” I touch my tongue to my upper lip. “Sex makes this complicated.”

“Only if we let it.”

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “So what’s our plan? We just . . . fool around until one of us enters another relationship? Then what?”

Mark’s head snaps up, brow furrowing slightly as though he’s not following.

“We’ll never be platonic BFFs again, we’ll be friends who slept together.”

“We already slept together.”

“But—” I drum my fingers on the table. “Do you want to sleep with me again?”

“Yes,” he says, simply and without hesitation. Decisive.

I like it.

I like it too much.

I bite my lip. “Okay, how about—”

“No.” He takes another sip of coffee.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”

“You’re going to suggest we decide whether or not to sleep together again based on your Magic 8 ball.”

My jaw drops. “How did you—”

“I’m not making this decision based on a children’s toy, Kelly.”

“Okay, okay,” I say soothingly, slowly pushing back from the table. “You don’t have to.” I jump to my feet and dash to the stairs. “But I need some guidance,” I call out, taking the stairs two at a time.

My Magic 8 ball—one of them—is on my dresser where I set it earlier after it guided me through the tricky decision of pink thong or black bikini panties. The damn ball led me toward the thong, which is unfortunate, because . . . well, comfort.

But she’s never steered me wrong before, so why would she start now.

I pick it up. “Should Mark and I sleep together again?”

Confession: I already asked her this morning. The answer both times? Maybe.

A third time can’t hurt—I just have to wait for her to get more desire.

I give it a shake, but before I can get the answer, a male hand plucks the Magic 8 ball away.

“Hey, I need—”

“No you don’t,” he says, holding it over his head even as I make a jump for it. “You don’t need this stupid ball to decide.”

“Call it a stupid ball again and I’ll knee your stupid balls,” I mutter.

He smiles and wraps an arm around my waist. “No you won’t.”

“I might!”

“Nope.”

He lowers his mouth to my neck, and I can’t stop the sigh as his lips touch the skin just below my ear. “Wait, if I could just see—”

“Make the decision, Kelly.” His mouth opens over my neck, teeth nipping lightly.

I gasp. “I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

“I’m—” I swallow as he kisses the sensitive skin at the base of my throat. “I’m scared,” I manage.

Mark goes still and straightens so he can meet my eyes. “Of me?”

“Of us,” I say. “Of ruining this.”

I gesture between us.

Mark’s voice is gentle. “Did last night feel like a ruination?”

I remember the way my orgasmic wails echoed off the walls. I was sort of ruined. “Well—”

“I mean a ruination of us.”

I take a deep breath. “No.”

“Well, then. What makes you think a second time will?”

I press my lips together and try to be brave, I do, it’s just . . . I make another leap for the Magic 8 ball, but he puts it once more out of my reach.

“All right,” he says slowly, searching my face. “You need someone to make this decision for you?”

I nod and hold out my hands for the ball with a smile.

In response, he tosses it backward into the hall, where it rolls and collides with the wall.

“Hey!” I try to go for it, but he wraps an arm around my waist, propelling me backward until my feet are off the ground and I land flat on my back on the bed with an oomf.

Mark follows me onto the bed, caging me in with his big body.

“Ask me,” he orders, pinning my wrists over my head with one hand.

“Ask you what?” I say, a little breathless.

“Ask me what you asked the damn ball.”

I swallow. “Should I sleep with Mark again?”

His smile is slow and confident as he slowly lowers his body to mine. “It is certain.”