We eventually pull apart, though I keep hold of her hand like I’m afraid she’ll disappear if I let go.
“We should probably get some sleep,” she says, but neither of us moves toward our separate sleeping spaces.
“Probably,” I agree.
“Santa’s coming.”
“Right. Santa.”
She laughs softly and squeezes my hand. “Good night, Reese.”
“Good night, Becca.” I drop a kiss on her forehead.
Almost hesitantly, as if she doesn’t want tonight to end, she climbs back into bed, and I return to the couch, but everything feels different now. The air is charged with possibility and uncertainty and the recent memory of that kiss, already printed in my mind, where it will live forever.
I lie awake for a long time, listening to her breathing even out, watching the snow fall through the window, and thinking about how tomorrow is Christmas morning. Most of all, I have no idea what happens next.
But somewhere between worrying and wondering, exhaustion finally wins, and I drift off with the taste of chocolate still on my lips.
CHAPTER 9
REBECCA
I wake to bright light streaming through the window and the sound of Pookie’s tags jingling as she gives herself an awake shake.
It’s Christmas morning.
I sit up, my heart doing a little jiggle of its own as memories from last night come rushing back.
The kiss.
Reese’s hands in my hair.
The way the world may as well have been just the two of us and the falling snow.
He’s already awake, sitting on the edge of the couch in his plaid pajamas, his hair adorably mussed. Hands clasped together, I think he’s praying. After a few moments, he shifts and blinks as if realizing that nothing that transpired in the last twenty-four hours was a dream.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, feeling slightly shy.
“Merry Christmas.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I want to do the same … again. It’s so soft and thick. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Eventually.” My cheeks warm. “You?”
“Same.”
We stare at each other for a beat too long—or not long enough—and then both look away. This could get awkward fast if we let it, but I don’t want awkward. I want more of what happened last night.
“Breakfast?” he suggests.
“Please. I’m starving.”
The dining room has been transformed into a winter wonderland overnight. Every table has a small Christmas tree centerpiece, and a massive buffet waits with everything from cinnamon rolls to eggs Benedict to chocolate-chip pancakes shaped like snowmen.
We fill our plates and find a table by the window. Outside, the snow continues to dance through the sky, though not as heavily as yesterday. The world looks clean and new and full of possibility.
The heaping pile of food is tempting, but I need to say this before I lose my nerve. “Last night?—”
“Was amazing,” he finishes. “Unless you’re about to tell me it was a mistake, in which case I’m going to need to chug this coffee first.”
