Free Winter Wishes (The Play #1.5) by Karina Halle

Ruff Love.”
    “Ruff what?” he asks, frowning in total old person exaggeration.
    Lachlan sighs while Jessica says, “Ruff Love. Lachlan’s organization, the shelter for the dogs.”
    “Bah,” he says. “They’re better left on the streets. You know what they say about dogs? They’re for people who need love because they can’t get it anywhere else. Dogs are just retarded children with fur.” He takes a sip of his tea and grimaces. “Christ, Jessy. How long did you steep this for?”
    Lachlan is so tense beside me, his eyes taking on that wild, hardened look I fear that any moment he’s just going to reach across the table, grab his grandfather by the throat and throttle him. And when he gets up, for a second I think that’s just what he’s going to do. But he looks down at me, attempts a half-smile and says, “We should go put our stuff away in our room. We might be too tired later.”
    Thank fucking god. An out.
    I get up quickly and we hustle out of the room while Donald calls out after us, “You’re in the usual room.”
    We grab our bags from the foyer and then head up the creaky wooden stairs to the second floor. Once we are out of sight from the drawing room, Lachlan stops and leans his head against the wall, eyes closed, and breathes in and out deeply. I watch him for a few moments until he straightens up, the line between his eyes softening, and nods at the open door closest to us.
    “That’s our room.”
    I go inside, putting the bag on the floor and he closes the door behind us. I absently take in the space – the wood floor, the cornflower blue walls and matching bedspread, the window sill dusted with snow – but my mind is still reeling over everything that happened downstairs.
    All I can say is, “Wow.” I sit down on the bed, the mattress overly soft.
    Lachlan nods, rubbing his hand over his jaw. I can hear the bristle of his stubble. “Yeah. Wow is right. He just hit up all the things I love in a matter of seconds.”
    “I’m sorry,” I tell him, wringing my hands together.
    “No,” he says emphatically, leaning down and placing his hands on my shoulders, his pained green eyes searching mine. “I’m sorry. He had no right to speak to you that way.”
    I run my fingers along his cheekbone, down the side of his cheek, to his lips. “Lachlan, please. I know it has nothing to do with you. I’m a tough cookie. I can handle it. He’s pretty much your typical grandpa. Maybe a bit more racist than most but otherwise just a grumpy old man.” I close my eyes and kiss him softly, sweetly. “Really. Don’t worry about me.”
    But I know he does. He can’t help himself.
    We stay in the room for a while, slowly putting our clothes away and tucking presents underneath the bed. He tells me this used to be his uncle’s room (Linden and Bram’s father). His father’s old room is next door, where Bram will be staying and his aunt’s old room is where Jessica and Donald are. I can tell we’re just trying to waste time before going back downstairs but we can’t hide forever.
    When we finally do go downstairs though, the grandfather is nowhere to be found and Jessica is puttering around, putting away dishes.
    “Where is everyone?” Lachlan asks as we step into the kitchen and she nearly jumps.
    “They went for a walk,” Jessica says, hustling over to us. She takes us both by the arms and leads us back into the drawing room. “Here, sit by the fire. Relax, I’ll bring you some tea.”
    Our protests don’t seem to matter and Jessica doesn’t mention anything to do with George, so Lachlan and I settle in our seats, still on edge, waiting for the grandfather and Donald to come back in, while “Silver Bells” plays from the speakers.
    When they do come back though, George is remarkably silent. I’m going to assume the walk he took with Donald was to get him to de-grumpify. The rest of the evening actually goes along quite well and when everyone gathers around the fire before