I nod and clench my jaw. “You’d have to take me off it first.”
“You could be on there twice for all I care. I’m giving you a clean slate. Don’t blow it by being fake.”
In the distance, an orchestra begins to play holiday songs in the gazebo. The first few notes of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas”float to us. The boat near the lighthouse gets closer, traveling the path to shore lined with the boats. Meanwhile, my stomach churns like the swell of waves.
I swallow thickly. “What if you don’t like the real thing?”
“I’d like the opportunity to figure that out for myself for a change. You two have been making decisions about my life without me for a while, and it stops now. If you say you’re here for me,behere for me. Not some fake version of yourself. Okay?” She offers her hand out for a shake.
I hesitate. Tension tugs between us, like the connection is winding itself tighter. I don’t think I have a choice or the time to argue. “Okay,” I exhale and reach out for her hand.
Skin meets skin. As always, electricity runs up my arm, sending a shock through my system. Same old. Same old.
Except, Natalie jumps as if she felt something too.
Hello, hope.
I cock my head as she tries to discreetly shake her hand out at her side. “Did I shock you?” I ask.
She looks at her hand in disbelief. “Uhm. Yeah. Must be a wool-on-wool crime.”
My cheeks stretch wide as a smile rakes across my face. That’s no static shock, baby.
“You’ll get used to it,” I say, wrapping my arm around her and pulling her tight against me.
Across the way in the harbor, Santa stands and waves as the boat draws near. Something pops its head out of the water. The boat stops its engine and Santa, perched on the bow of the ship, crashes into the harbor.
I jump this time, and Natalie doesn’t react at all.
With her head rested on my shoulder, I can feel her smile spread wide. “They really should change the parade so it’s not on a Pats game day, he’s always so tipsy,” she murmurs. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used it.”
Inside I glow, the Christmas lights untangling and shining.
Natalie’s wrong. A future here, with her, would never feel ordinary to me.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
NATALIE
In the D’Amore household,baking cookies isn’t just a sweet holiday tradition. No, it’s a grueling twelve-hour shift of mixing twelve different batters, shaping the dough, baking sheets and sheets of Italian Christmas cookies, making royal icing for our version of angelettis, meticulously decorating one hundred and forty-four cookies—sometimes with a tweezer for perfect sprinkle placement—placing them in their tins, and finishing them with a perfectly hand-tied bow.
Who would expect something different from the woman who took over an hour deciding what wreath to buy for the front fence that nobody sees?
These cookies are being delivered to actual people! People who expect perfection from something they will probably admire for a whole two seconds before promptly shoving the entire tin in their face.
My mother lurks over Cole’s shoulder as he rolls chocolate chip cookie dough into balls and places them on the cookie sheet. “I need your balls a little smaller, Cole.”
“You and me both,” I giggle.
My mother fake-swats at the back of my head. “If they’re the size of what’s on that sheet, you might want to bring him to the doctor to get that checked out.”
Cole coughs, choking on a surprised laugh. Laugh lines crinkle the edges of his eyes. Since yesterday on the parking garage roof, he’s been lighter. He’s laughing and smiling more and scowling less. Or maybe I’m not looking for the scowl now that I know that’s just his face.
“My balls are fine, thank you, ladies,” he says.
My mother presses her mouth into a harsh line. “Well, maybe the ones I can’t see are…”
