I watch him disappear around the corner, veins turning to ice when I shift back around and catch Blythe's stare.

Time's up.

Her eyes practically blaze with excitement.

"So, Skylar, you work with Blythe at the newspaper?" Mr. Keaton asks.

I jump in before Blythe has time to comment. "I do. I'm also an assistant for the style section, and I write my own column, all about dating in the city in your twenties."

"How wonderful, your own column," he says. And I breathe easy for a moment. Mr. Keaton is actually very sweet—it's just the women in this family that have issues it seems.

"Which column?" Mrs. Keaton purrs from her teacup.

I swallow. Something in her tone unnerves me. The same prickly sweetness of her daughter. "Um, you probably haven’t read it."

"Skylar, don't be so modest, of course she has. Everyone has," Blythe chimes in. I close my eyes, taking a moment to breathe.

Oh god.

Oh god.

"She writes it under a penname. Cooper Quinn?"

That's it. I'm done for.

But no bomb explodes. There's no screaming. No kicking me out. No reaction. I release the breath I was holding, exhaling slowly. The world hasn't ended. The earth is still intact. I open my eyes.

"Oh, Cooper Quinn?" Her mother pauses. And then she smiles. And for a second, I think—this cannot be happening. She reads my column? And approves? I almost want to point and laugh at Blythe—victory is so, so sweet. Her mom continues, and the sinking expression on Blythe's face is enough for me. "I recognize that name. I do read that column, all the ladies—"

Mrs. Keaton stops dead.

My heart follows, screeching to a halt. The elation in my chest evaporates as realization dawns, a flip switching in the depths of her hazel eyes, which are slowly narrowing to slits. Blythe's smug expression pierces like a knife.

"You write that column?" Mrs. Keaton asks.

I start to choke on my own breath, reaching for my glass of water, finding it painfully empty. Where are those servants when you actually need them?

"And, PK, is Patri…" She trails off into silence. Every word she's ever read in my column flickers in her gaze, every lewd detail she perhaps gossiped about with friends or read with shocked curiosity, devoured like a penny novel. Every little bit she once found entertaining is now turning utterly grotesque in her mind.

My face is turning beet red, I just know it. And Blythe is taking a mental picture by my side, grinning triumphantly. Mr. Keaton just looks confused. But I can’t take my eyes off of the ever-rising eyebrows of Mrs. Keaton, the accusation in her glare, the utterly disapproving purse of her lips.

And I finally have an answer to my question about what could be worse than my own mother finding out I write a sex column. It’s my boyfriend's mother finding out I write a sex column about her son.

I sit back in the chair, leaning into the cushion, trying to shrink—wondering if I can disappear if I just think hard enough.

But I don't.

Her eyes nail me in place.

I just bite my lip and sigh. This is going to be the longest dinner of my life.

Patrick and I don't speak about his parents again. I mean, radio silence. As the Christmas season passes, we get sugar-high on hot chocolate, ice skate, go shopping, see a holiday show, have a wicked snowball fight, but we don’t speak a word about that night. And I have no idea what that means.

I haven't been alone with Ollie since the mistletoe incident—as that moment will henceforth be known. Sure, I've seen him—I mean, we live together. There's no way around that. But if he's in the kitchen, I'm in the living room. If Bridget's not home, I'm safe behind the closed door of my bedroom. And right now, stepping through the front door of the McDonough home for Christmas Eve dinner, I don’t ever want to leave my mother's side.

"Look at your hand!" Bridge calls as soon as we step through the door.

I hold my wrist up, grinning. "No more cast, no more splint! My mom and I went to the doctor this morning."

She runs a finger over my wilted skin. "It looks…"

"I know." I shake my head, flexing my stiff muscles. The skin around my wrist is pasty white, like sickly, and the entire area is noticeably smaller than my other wrist. "It looks disgusting."

"No." She shakes her head, grabbing my other hand to pull me inside. "It looks like a Christmas miracle."

I lift an eyebrow, asking, "Did you get started on the eggnog a little early?"

Bridge pauses. "Maybe…"

But we've entered the kitchen before I can respond, and I'm immediately pulled into two enthusiastic embraces.

"Hi, Mr. and Mrs. McDonough. Merry Christmas," I murmur into the sweaters my face has been pressed into. Ollie remains on the other side of the room, idly stirring a pot on the stovetop. He glances in my direction, but I think he knows I don't want him to come any closer.

"It's so nice to have everyone together." Bridge's mom sighs, looking around with a goofy smiled plastered across her lips. "I don't think all six of us have been in a room together in years."

Four and a half years, if we're being exact. But who's counting?

My eyes drop away from Ollie and I lean into my mom's shoulder. The conversation turns to the multitude of Christmas cards taped to the fridge, half of which my mom designed for locals—McDonough family included. I listen politely, smiling, just taking comfort in my mom's presence. Or well, I was, until my eyes veered to the right and ran into Bridge's wide, imploring expression.

"What?" I mouth at her.

But Bridge doesn't say anything. She just opens her eyes wider. I sigh, stealing away from the nice warm spot on my mom's shoulder, and cross the kitchen to the kid's side. I settle into a spot next to Bridge, a little too close to Ollie, who seems suspiciously unaware of our presence.

"What?" I ask again.

"You're not the only one with news," she says, and then stops, eyes dancing. My lips twitch with anticipation. Bridge leans in, whispering, "I got a date for the New Year's Eve party."

"Who?"

"You know that guy I was telling you about from my gym?"

I raise my brows. "You mean the guy who can do one handed pull-ups and caught you drooling last week?"

"I was not drooling," she says, slapping my arm lightly. "That was a bead of sweat that just happened to start at the corner of my lips and make a painstakingly slow trip to the floor."

"Mm-hmm, sure it was."

"Anyway…" Bridge draws the last syllable out like it deserves its own sentence. "The gallery was closed this morning, but I decided to wait until Ollie got off work so I could come home with him. So, I had a few hours to spare and decided to test my luck at the gym. Low and behold, Mr. Hottie was there and right next to him was an open treadmill. So—"

"Let me guess, you did some stretching first?" I interject, trying to hide my grin.

Bridge bites her lip. "Light stretching, maybe."

"Did you wear that spaghetti strap shirt you claim is for working out but is really for showing an ample amount of cleavage?"

"Potentially…"

I can’t help it, a little snicker squeaks out. "That's like the third date that shirt has landed for you."

"What?" She huffs. "Name the first two times."