Isabella took a morose sip of the sugar-laden drink. “Is it that bad?”
Yes. I was fairly certain that the usually sweet dish wasn’t supposed to be so…salty. But while I operated on a general principle of honesty, wild horses couldn’t drag this particular truth out of me.
“It’s perfectly edible.” I stirred milk into my tea and prayed she didn’t ask me to elaborate or, God forbid, take another bite. “However, it’s Christmas. We should be enjoying the day instead of, ah, cooking. Why don’t I order food instead?”
She acquiesced with a sigh. “That’s probably a good idea.”
I hid my relief and placed the order on my phone.
We were supposed to tackle her mom’s Christmas recipes last night, but we got…distracted after she’d showed up at my front door wearing a red dress. Granted, the dress had been modest by Isabella’s standards, but it didn’t matter. She could wear a potato sack and the sight would still hit me in the gut.
It was quite concerning. I had half a mind to fund research on her baffling impact on me during my next round of scientific donations.
We migrated from the kitchen to the dining room, which my housekeeper had decorated with a massive flocked Christmas tree after Thanksgiving. White marble reindeer sculptures, sleek gold wreaths, and a row of snowy velvet stockings added to the festive atmosphere.
“This is so beautiful.” Isabella ran her hands over the stockings. “If I were you, I’d never take these down.”
Warmth sparked in my stomach.
I asked for the same decor every year. Changing it annually was a waste of time and efficiency, and I’d never thought much about it. But seeing them through her eyes made me appreciate the details just a little more.
“I could keep them up,” I said. “But then there’d be no fall decor, Halloween decor, Lunar New Year decor…”
“Good point.” She dropped her hand with another sigh. “I hate how you keep making those.”
Our food arrived with surprising speed, and after some debate over Netflix versus board games, we settled into increasingly competitive rounds of Scrabble over cinnamon roll pancakes, champagne donuts, eggs Benedict, and sweet potato hash.
“Vizcacha? Are you kidding?” Isabella slapped her palm against the board when I won the third round in a row. “How do you come up with these words?”
“You came up with quetzals in the last round,” I pointed out.
“One, I visited Guatemala in college, and two, I still lost.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you cheating?”
“I don’t need to cheat,” I said, offended. “Cheating is for the intellectually lazy and dishonest.”
Isabella came close to beating me a few times, but we finished with a final score of five to zero. I almost let her win at the end, but she wouldn’t take kindly to a pity loss from me. Plus, the thought of willingly giving up a victory curdled like bile in my stomach.
Other than her vizcacha outburst, she took the outcome in stride.
“I have something for you,” she said after we finished our food and put away the Scrabble board.
“I know we didn’t say anything about presents, but I saw this and couldn’t resist.”
She reached into her bag and handed me a brown paper-wrapped package. It read To Kai. Merry Christmas!! in her signature loopy cursive. Red hearts dotted the i’s and matched the red bow.
A pang pierced my gut at the sight of the hand-drawn hearts.
I unwrapped the present methodically, taking great care not to rip the paper or the bow. The wrapping fell away, revealing a book unlike any I’d encountered before.
I stared at the cover, too flummoxed to form a coherent response. “Is this…”
“A signed copy of A Raptor Ripped My Bodice, the latest dino erotica by Wilma Pebbles,”
Isabella confirmed. “It’s a hot commodity since Wilma only sells a small number of autographed books every year. I literally had three screens up at the same time so I could snag one before they sold out. Congratulations.” Her dimples deepened. “Your literary collection is now complete. Also, you have something new to translate when the board pisses you off. I bet it’ll be more relaxing than translating Hemingway.”
If the hearts had cracked the outer wall of my defenses, the present—and her explanation— demolished it beyond repair.
I’d received countless gifts in my life. A customized Audi for my sixteenth birthday; a limited-edition Vacheron Constantin watch when I was accepted into Oxford; a penthouse atop the Peak in Hong Kong when I graduated from Cambridge with my master’s. None of them touched me as much as a flimsy paperback of velociraptor erotica.
“Thank you,” I said, trying to make sense of the odd tightness in my chest. I sincerely hoped I wasn’t in the early throes of a heart attack. That would ruin Christmas forevermore for all parties involved.
“Wait, that’s not all.” Isabella pulled a manila envelope from her bag.
“Does the raptor have a brother who also enjoys a good bodice rip?” I teased.
“Ha ha. As a matter of fact, he does, but you’re not ready for the kinks in that book. No. This is, um, my manuscript so far.” Isabella handed the envelope to me with a noticeably nervous expression.
“I’m not sure whether it counts as a gift since I can’t guarantee it’s good, but you wanted to read it, so here it is. Just promise you won’t read it until after I’m gone.”
Forget what I said about the book. Isabella trusting me with her work in progress was…
Fuck. I swallowed past the creeping pressure in my throat.
“I promise.” I tucked the envelope beneath Wilma Pebbles and retrieved a box from beneath the tree. Most of the gifts were for show; only two were exceptions. “On that note, I also have a surprise for you. It seems we were on the same page about presents.”
Isabella’s face lit up. “I love surprises.” She took the box and shook it gently. A rattling sound ensued. “What is it? Makeup? Shoes? A new laptop?”
I laughed. “Open it and find out.”
Isabella didn’t have my hang-up about preserving the wrapping paper. She tore through the metallic foil without hesitation, revealing a simple black box.
An unfamiliar rush of anxiety shot through me when she removed the lid and went utterly still.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “Kai…”
Sitting in the box, nestled in a bed of tissue paper, was a vintage 1960s typewriter. The manufacturer went out of business decades ago, and there were less than a dozen of its products still circulating in auction rooms and antique shops. I’d paid a king’s ransom to refurbish and restore it to functionality before Christmas, but it was worth it.
“You said you keep deleting what you write, so I thought this would help.” I tapped the side of the box. “No delete option on a typewriter.”
“It’s gorgeous.” Isabella ran her fingers over the keys, her eyes suspiciously bright. “But I can’t accept it. It’s too much. I bought you dinosaur erotica, for God’s sake. This is in no way an equal trade.”
“It’s not a trade. It’s a gift.”