Christmas Eve morning was literally hell.
Frida and Laz were working their butts off to make everything perfect. He was chopping vegetables while she marinated the meats according to his step-by-step guide—which, in the end, he did himself because he thought she'd added too much salt. Their current argument was in full swing.
"What do you mean I added an extra drop of salt?" she whined.
"Look, baby, I know you're trying to help, but you don't have to, you know. You can sit your pretty ass down," he pleaded.
She shook her head like a spoiled brat. "No! I want to help make Christmas Eve dinner!"
He actually laughed and moved her gently aside to grab some spices. "Fine, hold my spoon," he teased.
"Ha ha, so funny, Laz—" He kissed her mid-sentence.
"You look too good," he whispered against her lips.
"I'm sweating…" she squeaked shyly, blushing.
