“Not at all. Have at it.”
He opens the glass doors and jabs the iron poker around, then throws another log on the grate. At last, he settles beside me on the sofa and drapes his arm around my shoulder. I snuggle into his side, sighing with peaceful joy. The night is perfection, and the future shines bright.
The soft strains ofSilent Nightdrift from a video playing on the TV.
“Since we have a minute, would now be a good time to give you my gift, Ev?”
I rub my hands together. “You mean that cute little box with a giant red bow is mine?” It rode into the house atop the basket of goodies for Mom.
He taps my nose. “That’s the one.”
I pop up before he can and snatch it from the basket, then take my gift to him from its spot beneath the tree.
“Open mine first.” Nerves gather in my stomach. Working all day yesterday at the diner and all day today in the kitchen with Mom left me no time for serious gift shopping. Next year, I’ll do better.
Yes, next year. I feel it to my toes.
Knox neatly slips his finger beneath the strip of tape at the bottom of the box.
“Oh brother. You’re one ofthosepeople?”
He leans back to look at me. “What people?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s okay to rip the paper, buddy.”
“Sorry, force of habit. When I was a kid, Mom always tried to save as much wrapping paper as possible to reuse.”
I stare him down. He’s serious as a heart attack, so I guess he wasn’t exaggerating when he said his early years were lean.
Suddenly, he throws caution to the wind and rips, wads, and tosses the sparkly paper aside. He opens the box. A black French bulldog wearing a Santa hat decorates a jumbo ceramic mug. Beneath the dog,Dozeris painted in black script. I ordered it online the night after I saw the socks and paid oodles to have it overnighted. In that moment, my choice felt perfect. In the present one, it feels silly.
“Aw, Ev. I love it.”
I sigh. “It isn’t much.”
He hugs me, pressing my cheek into his soft sweater. “It’s perfect. You better know this is my new favorite mug henceforth, Christmastime or otherwise.” He kisses the top of my head and sets his box in my lap. “Your turn.”
Fingers trembling, I tug one end of the ribbon, and the perfectly swirled bow collapses. With a single, well-placed rip, the sturdy, professional-grade wrapping paper falls from the lightweight box.
Parting white tissue paper, I lift out a delicately created ornament. I recognize it as the work of the artist we watched craft his wares the night of the Christmas tree lighting. The sphere is handcrafted glass, lightly frosted, adorned with delicate, sparkling snowflakes. “It’s beautiful, Knox.” Truly.
“Turn it around.”
I do, and my hands shake—but in a good way. The current year andFirst Christmasis scripted in the center of an intricate snowflake.
Knox’s teeth bite into his lip. He looks sheepish. “Too soon?”
Some might say it is, but my heart knows, by God’s grace, this Christmas will be the first of many.
Capturing his warm, waiting gaze, I swing my head slowly from side to side. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you, Knox Herd.”
“And I for you, Everly Anne.”
His fingers on my shoulder curl, drawing me in yet again. Of their own accord, my lips pucker.
Knox’s approach stalls. He and I both jerk backward as the front door flies open. In typical, dramatic fashion, my little sis, whom I didn’t realize had even gone outside, barrels into the house, a phone charging cord sprouting from her grip.
I scowl at the interruption and, more specifically, at her obnoxious, knowing smirk.
