After only working for an hour and a half, I quickly realize that there’s nothing else I can do. It’s an itch underneath my skin where I can’t scratch, catapulting me to leave my office behind and head to the living room.

  Only to be confronted by Logan sitting on my couch, legs spread out, covered in blankets, and reading the same romance novel that he was reading last night.

  He turns to look at me over his shoulder and gives me a soft smile that I’m not sure I deserve. Unfortunately, my chest is alight with a warm glow, and it’s all Logan’s fault.

  “I’m almost at the middle,” he says, holding the book aloft.

  I nod slowly, unsure of what to say.

  He sits up, though, eyebrows pinched in a frown. “Is something wrong?”

  I shake my head. I nod. I shrug. “I’m restless. I can’t do anything to accomplish what I need to do before the day is over, and it’s pissing me off. I don’t know what to do with myself, Logan.”

  He raises his eyebrows, runs a hand through his dark hair. “Push-ups always help me when I’m feeling like I’m a hamster on a wheel.”

  I don’t comment on him getting right down to the root of what I’m feeling. Guess I look as frazzled as I feel. There’s nothing about this entire situation that I can control “Push-ups? Really? I don’t even know if I can do one.”

  “Try it. See how many you can do. You can do standing ones, too.”

  I amble aimlessly into the kitchen instead, halt in front of my fridge, searching for a snack that’ll take away the bite of bitterness at a productive day lost forever.

  I twist and grab an apple off my fruit basket instead, wash it quickly in the sink, and start thinking about water again.

  “I’ve filled up some pots with water,” Logan calls, jarring me from my thoughts. Can he read minds?

  Jesus, Max, you’re glaring at the faucet like it went and called you an asshole. It doesn’t take much deducing to figure you out.

  “So we have some sitting at room temperature first.”

  I nod. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that. I would have gotten around to it.”

  “I know,” Logan says, moving to stand after carefully inserting a napkin in between the pages as a bookmark. “I wanted to help.”

  I feel weird about him snooping in my kitchen, even though I expressly told him to make himself at home.

  “Well, thanks, but you didn’t have to.”

  Logan’s the one this time to roll his eyes. I stop and stare, and point. “Max, let me help. It’s the least I could do. I got you into all of this mess.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Which mess are we talking about?”

  Logan’s cheeks turn a little pink with something like a blush. “I’m sorry I got you roped into this. I am, truly. And we stop whenever you want to.”

  I lick my lips. “I need you to come with me to Christmas dinner. That’s a non-negotiable for me. In return, I think me letting you live here is enough of a repayment, right?”

  Logan slumps, his shoulders drooping. He sighs and wraps the blanket more tightly around his body. “You’re right. I could be walking I don’t know how many hours to try and get back to my place. I’m incredibly grateful that you’re letting me stay.”

  Well, shit. Way to make me feel guilty.

  “We can’t keep talking to each other like this,” I say, pointing between the two of us. “Because my parents? They’re like sharks. They can smell a wounded fish, or a shitty backstory any day of the week from a mile away.”

  Logan snorts, smiles. It drops right off his face when I don’t return it. “You’re being serious?”

  I nod. “Deadly. My cousins are going to be at the dinner with their boyfriends, so maybe you guys will end up bros for life. Who knows?” I take a giant bite of my apple. My feet are icy cold in my socks, and I wish I bought those new slippers I promised myself for Christmas earlier than the day of. “I don’t want all that attention on me. Not that kind of attention.”

  Logan tilts his head, bird-like. I stare right back, my heart starting to beat faster in my chest.

  What does he see? What doesn’t he see?

  What makes me worthy of being a wife to him? What the fuck did we talk about that made all of this somehow work?

  Why did I think I was cut out for marriage if Logan was the guy I was married to?

  None of it makes any kind of sense. And the hole in my memory is really starting to drive me up the wall.

  “We need to make it look real for the old folks.”

  Logan stays still, so very still that I wonder for a split second if he’s breathing. “You have to be very explicit with me. Spell it out.”

  “We have to be comfortable with each other. Physically, not physically.”

  Logan shakes his head. “You lost me.”

  I take another bite of my apple, choke it down. “We have to look at ease in each other’s company. Like every romance couple ever do in the history of every romance novel ever written. Not like how we are right now.”

  “Maybe you need to read some more books, Max.”

  I jab my finger in the air. “Maybe you do. Because I know what those couples look like, how together they seem. We have to do that, the both of us.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “Uh, not right now. I think I should go run up and down the hall or something, try to get rid of this feeling first. Then take a scalding hot shower for a short amount of time. Then maybe we’ll talk about it.”

  Logan takes a step forward, looking absolutely ridiculous (and unfortunately adorable) with the blanket about to trip him up.

  “That sounds like you’re running away, Max.”

  I nearly choke on my damn snack. “Excuse me? That’s a joke, right?”

  He shakes his head, and I concentrate on swallowing. “Not at all.”

  I gulp. “I’m not running away. I need to move around or I’m liable to start throwing things. That’s just the way it is.”

  “Or it could be that I’ve been encroaching in on your space since last night, and I can’t get gone.”

  I blink at him. “Did I say that? Because I don’t remember it leaving my mouth.”

  Logan stares too long at my lips, and my entire body freezes on the spot. I mean, I don’t think Logan would marry me if he didn’t think I was a teeny bit attractive. That makes sense.

  And of course, he’s attractive too. But looking good isn’t the best criteria in evaluating how to choose a marriage partner.

  I still don’t know what I was thinking.

  “You’re unhappy about something,” Logan says.

  I gulp. My stupid face always gives everything away. “I just told you what I’m pissed off about.”

  Logan smiles, and my heart’s doing weird, acrobatic things in my chest. “Max, that’s not what I said.”

  “Pissed off and unhappy basically mean the same thing.”

  “No. No, they don’t,” he says gently, gentle enough that something pinches and twinges inside me.

  I glance away, appalled at the tears welling in my eyes. Seriously, Logan decides to make a distinction and I’m the one who’s getting emotional? Absolutely not.

  “I’m unhappy with a lot of things,” I say to the wall, unable to turn and look at him. My place feels too small, too tight, for everything I’m feeling, colliding with the space that Logan currently occupies. “I need to get some air. I’ll be back.”

  He doesn’t say anything when I don my boots and heavy winter coat. He doesn’t say anything when I leave the apartment, and he doesn’t come out into the hall to call me back like you would see some guys do in the movies.

  I head down the metal staircase, stomping hard enough against the metal slats that somehow ease my frustration. I fish my phone out of the pocket of my sweats, stuff it in my coat, and try to navigate the zipper while walking down the stairs.

  The lobby is empty, quiet. There is no humming of the lights overhead, or the sound of elevators going up and down, up and down. The world outside is blanketed with white swirling snow, sharp and deadly, not soft and pretty like you see inside snow globes.

  I hesitate at the lobby doors, belatedly realizing that I didn’t take my keys. I completely forgot that the power is out, and whatever is holding the front door locked probably isn’t anymore.

  I stay inside the lobby, breathing in and out, struggling to come to terms with what I’m feeling, with what I want.

  I feel like an epic failure that I’m going to ruin Vlogmas this year for my subscribers. I had fun things planned, and I wanted to interact on the daily with everyone, answering comments, being present on the platform, but that’s not happening.

  I also don’t want it to look like I ghosted everyone and dropped videos just like that. It’s not me, that’s not what I’m about.

  I love talking to my subscribers, to the people who comment. And now I can’t.

  Like a glacier moving along the ocean’s surface, it’s only the very tip of the iceberg that’s bothering me.

  This memory loss thing is doing me in. It’s frustrating as all hell, and no matter how much I poke and prod, and try to figure out what parts of the night I’m missing, the memories seem that much more elusive.

  Plus, there’s this whole marriage thing. My husband’s upstairs, waiting for me. My husband who is reading one of my favorite books and asking me questions I barely ask myself.

  Everything’s confusing, and I don’t know why I truly did this to myself. I mean, did Logan manipulate me into marrying him so I could get him over to my mom’s house for Christmas?

  I know myself. Plus, there’s the voicemail that clearly has me saying what I need to do.

  I wasn’t coerced. Nope, this is all Maxima Prewitt, at her lowest.

  Shit.

  I stomp back upstairs, legs aching and totally out of breath once I reach my floor. I shove the front door open and stumble inside to a heavenly smell wafting from my kitchen.

  Logan’s ditched the blankets in favor of wearing one of my Canadiens tuques, keeping his head warm. He’s rolling out some dough on the floured surface of my counter, and I swear there’s butter and apples and sugar melting in the pot on the induction plate.

  My mouth waters, and if I’m not careful, I’ll start to drool.

  Because Logan’s making some kind of dessert, not because Logan is in the kitchen, baking for me.

  That would be stupid.

  The last thing I need is to start getting a crush on him when this marriage has to be annulled ASAP.

  “What are you making?”

  Logan smiles over at me, making my heart rattle in my chest. I hastily pull off my boots and coat, tucking them away for future use. I make sure the door is locked and move to the kitchen slowly. I sniff the air like a cartoon character, close my eyes at the way the butter and sugar are mixing together with the apples.

  “I’m making apple turnover filling. We can have it with ice cream for dessert. Or as a meal. Whatever you want.”

  “How do you know how to make apple turnover filling from scratch? Who are you?”

  He grins, stoops down to kiss the top of my head in a burst of affection I wasn’t ready for. “I bake a lot when I feel helpless. It gives me something to do with my hands.” He holds up the dough for emphasis. “I’m going to try to make a few turnovers in your Dutch oven. I’m going to have to rig the pots together so it feels like an oven, but it might work.”

  I bite at my lip. “Should we be eating this much food so early on?”

  “We need to eat, and the apples would eventually spoil.”

  He looks at home in my kitchen, standing there, baking.

  I rarely had any guys over to my apartment. Now Logan looks completely at home and I don’t know what to do with the image seared into my brain.

  “I’m upset at myself,” I say, out loud for all to hear.

  Logan glances at me makes the kind of eye contact that tells me he’s seeing me, in a way I haven’t been seen before. “Why, Max?”

  I clench my jaw tight, clench my fists at my sides. “You don’t have to cook and bake for me, you know, just because I’m letting you stay here.”

  His eyebrows jump high up his forehead, practically disappearing under the tuque. “I know that. But I want to. Get used to it, Max.” He smiles at me like we’re sharing a secret, then gets back to work, concentrating on the pots in front of him.

  Get used to it? We’re going to end this farce of a marriage after Christmas.

  Get used to it? Yeah, right.

  EIGHT

  “I’ll get you some more blankets,” I say, heading off towards the linen closet. It’s empty. I’ve used every single spare blanket that I have in my apartment to throw over my bed, or Logan’s makeshift bed on the couch.

  We’re in a blanket scarce economy and the temperature’s supposed to hit 25 below with the wind chill tonight.

  I lean back, and bump into a very solid chest, and well, the rest of his body, too.

  “Sorry, Max,” Logan says, not sounding sorry at all. I’m about to start throwing elbows, but Logan takes a few steps back, giving me my space. “If I can tape a blanket over the balcony door and the windows here in the living room, I bet it would be a lot warmer in here.”

  I nod, because yeah, that makes sense.

  The living room is blanketed in candlelight again, and my bedroom looks dark and ominous and a whole lot lonely.

  “I don’t have enough blankets though for that. I’ve got extra sheets that might work,” I say.

  Logan hums an affirmative sound, and I help him tape up some sheets over the living room windows, and then pull the curtains over top of them.

  “Does that feel better, or am I making it up in my head?” I ask. Logan laughs, running a hand over the curtains, trying to detect any cold air that might be seeping through.

  “No, it does feel better, absolutely. Hey, leave the dishes, I’ll do them tomorrow morning.”

  I snort. “You’re really on your best behavior, huh?”

  Logan stills as he stands next to me, and I tense up, too.

  “What? What did I say?”

  “Why do you think I’m trying to trick you?”

  “I didn’t say that, Logan.”

  “But it’s what you meant, though, right?”

  I roll my eyes. We’ve been alone together for one whole night and one whole day and we’re about to kill each other. How are we going to survive a stressful Christmas dinner that’s bound to end in disaster?

  “I’m doing my part. That’s what happens between people when they’re sharing the same space. You don’t take advantage of the other person,” Logan says, moving to the couch and plopping himself on it. “I don’t know what I can do to make you comfortable around me, Max. I’m trying.”

  “I’m as comfortable as can be,” I say, lying through my teeth. My cheeks are on fire, and my voice wobbles with the lie, effectively convincing no one. “I’ve got a lot of unanswered questions I’m not sure I want answers to. Do you understand?”

  Logan stares at me, the candlelight flickering in his dark eyes. Shit, he looks pretty amazing in the soft, warm glow, not that it matters.

  We’re in this together now, whether we like it or not.

  “You nearly chopped off your finger earlier, making supper,” he groans, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. He leans down to glare at me. “And you ran off to the bathroom by yourself without letting me look at it.”

  “Oh, is that what this is about? Seriously? I’m used to taking care of myself,” I scoff. “What were you going to do? Put the giant bandage on my finger? What for? What’s the point?”

  Logan’s eyebrows move thunderously low over his eyes, and I think I’m in for it. My belly does a disconcerting swoop, and I have the oddest urge to start twisting my hair around my fingers.

  “A couple that has been going out for some time, to be serious enough to invite each other over for the holiday, is used to doing things for one another. You’re the one that said we have to sell it.”

  I fight not to roll my eyes. “Well, this is who I am. This is who you married.”

  Logan shakes his head. “No, not really,” he says and leaves it at that. “But she’s under there, somewhere. If you let her out.”

  There are words left unsaid, some of them boiling up inside of me, too.

  I imagine what my parents will look like at the holiday dinner. Mom will be exhausted from cooking all day and cleaning every visible inch of the house. My dad will be sitting downstairs, watching whatever dumb sport is playing, instead of helping.

  My mom will be snippy with me for not coming over to help prep when my little sister still lives with them. My dad will make a comment about me taking the holiday off, and not working to make sure my nest egg is large enough when I inevitably fail at doing my non-conventional job.

  Amber will bring Brody, and Vick will bring Michael. Vick’s little sister Evie might have her nose in a book for most of the meal, and my little sister, Izzy, would be the life of the party. My mom’s sister will probably show up with those set of cousins, making that much more of audience to my demise.

  And that’s just as soon as we walk into the house. The day’s bound to get worse from there on in.

  I love Christmas, but I hate Christmas with my parents.

  How terrible is that?

  Now I imagine how much nicer it’ll be to have Logan there, sitting beside me, pretending that he likes me more than my parents currently do. It’d be nice to have someone in my corner besides Vick and Amber. Someone who isn’t related to me by blood.

  “Seriously, though,” I say, holding up the offensive finger. “I’m fine. It bled for like, ten minutes.”

  “It didn’t have to if you let me do the cooking.”

  I sigh, my shoulders slumping. I feel like a sad, little deflated balloon, discarded on the floor after a righteous birthday party.

  “You always do the cooking.”

  “Max, it’s been one day.”

  “That’s exactly it. We’ve been together one whole freaking day. And you’re doing all the cooking. The only thing that I try to do because I can’t do anything else.” I groan, frustrated. That itch under my skin starts up again. I start rubbing my arms up and down, up and down through my hoodie, trying to chase it away.