“To pull me aside whenever you please and have your way with me? How did you read my mind?” She smirks and stretches before rolling onto me, her body trapping mine.
I laugh. “I love that mind of yours. That could be part of the wish.”
“A Christmas wish? Let’s hear it then, Liam Hughes.”
“Today, you are my girlfriend. Nothing more, nothing less. We don’t talk about tomorrow or flights or anything that’s going to happen. We have this Christmas together.”
“All right,boyfriend.I think I can agree to that.” She kisses me softly, taking her time with it, pressing her smile against my matching one before breaking away to say, “I’ve never had a boyfriend, not a real one.”
“Then I have my work cut out for me being your first.”And best,I can’t help but think.
I flip her over and kiss her some more between her fits of laughter until Pen pounds on the door, again.
By the time Henri and I straighten our clothes and untangle ourselves from each other, everyone else is already downstairs seated around the tree armed with mugs of coffee for what’s destined to be a long day. The events of the fundraiser start at eight with the competitions and entertainment going until dark, when the gala will start for guests who purchased the exorbitantly-priced tables.
There’s some magic in how everyone turns into the childhood version of themselves when presents are involved. The air fills with the crinkling and tearing of wrapping paper. Mom attempts to capture it all on her phone while Dad and June shove the scraps into the waiting massive black bag.
“Here,” I say as I hand a box to Henri. I wrapped it before we flew out so the edges are scuffed white and the bow slides off as she takes it from me.
To my relief, she takes it without question. Instead of ripping the paper, she picks at the tape and removes it in one piece. Her hand flies to her mouth and tears clutter her eyes when the box pops open. I’ve been waiting for this moment since I talked to Fallon about the gift.
Henri reaches in and gingerly takes out the magazine in the plastic sleeve.
“It’s from the first-ever print run ofSpitfire,” I explain. “Fallon signed the note from the editor’s page.”
“I can’t believe you got a hold of this,” she says.
I shove a hand through my hair. “To be honest, it wasn’t too hard since they had boxes in storage considering they didn’t sell all that well.”
“It’s perfect.” She punctuates her words with a quick kiss.
“Oh, June, isn’t that the magazine you like?” Mom asks, peering over Henri’s shoulder.
“You’re thinking of a different one,” June rushes to say.
“No it’s definitely that one,” Pen chimes in, a smirk curling her lips as her gaze darts between June and I.
Does that mean she’s read my articles? No that’s not possible. There’s no way she knows it’s me if she has.
“They have good human interest pieces and fun quizzes and stuff.” June flushes. “I grab them when I’m stuck in line at the store and buy them because print is dying. It’s good for the economy.”
Henri looks at me. “I couldn’t agree more. The writers are incredibly talented.” I don’t know who else hears because Pen opens her next present and lets out an eardrum shattering whoop when she finds a blanket that has a pattern that looks an awful lot like Pedro Pascal’s face pasted over and over again. “Speaking of.” Henri grabs a small box from behind the tree and gives it to me.
Inside, I find three new notebooks, the exact type I like because of how well they fit in my pockets, and a touristyI Love New Yorkpen.
“You have to keep writing if you want to fill them up. If you don’t use them, you’ll hurt my feelings,” she says.
“There’s no way I’ll let that happen. Thank you.” I grab her in a hug. “For believing in me.”
Once all gifts are open, everyone moves to get ready, bundling up to face their responsibilities for the day. The lodge is already buzzing with activity when we all arrive.
With the intensity of a high school theater director with the casting list for the school’s spring musical, June posts the tournament bracket for the dual slalom at eight a.m. by the reception desk. It’s not made public earlier because in the years when it wasn’t posted the day of, there were some mysterious incidents between competitors.
Henri and I hang back while the first wave of competitors fight to get to the front. Only one or two think to take a picture and slip away.
The sound system cracks. “All competitors for the adult women’s half-pipe please report to the registration tent if you have not done so already. We will start in thirty minutes.”
“Pen’s in that one, right?” Henri asks. I smile, which causes her brows to furrow. “What?”
