“Okay. Walk straight. You trust me?”
“God help me, but I think I do.”
I led her up the walkway and stopped at the porch. The house was glowing, the tree sparkling through the window like a damn snow-globe come to life.
“You can open them now.” I eased my hands from her eyes and stepped to the side to watch her take it in.
She blinked, lips parting, and turned to me. “You did all this?”
I shrugged. Suddenly, I was twelve years old, trying to impress the pretty girl at school. “Dotty helped, but the tree was all me.”
She looked at it and back at me. “I haven't had a Christmas like this in years. It's… Wow…”
I had to bite back a grin.
“Wait till you see my dad's place,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “He finally got around to putting up the rest of his decorations last weekend. It's basically a Clark Griswold fever dream.”
She laughed, and something warm unfurled in my stomach at the sound. “Your family is kind of ridiculous, you know that?”
“I’ve been told. Frequently.”
“But like…in a very endearing way.” She scrunched her nose, and fuck if that wasn't the cutest thing I'd seen all week.
I couldn't help myself. I brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, my thumb lingering against her soft skin. She didn't pull away.
“Stick around, Ellie baby. I've got more where that came from.”
Her smile spread across her face. “You trying to make me fall in love with Christmas again?"
Or me.
I held the door open and ushered her in. “Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.”
If I didn’t get her inside soon, I was going to do something stupid—like kiss her senseless and forget this was fake for her.
The house smelled like pine and cinnamon. I headed straight for the stack of kindling and grabbed a few pieces, dropped them in, and struck a match. The flames caught quickly. Ellie settled onto the couch, and I slid in beside her as the fire started to crackle, casting a flickering glow over the room.
She noticed the journal sitting on the coffee table between us. “Finally decided to take it out of the floor?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Had to. Can’t have you losing a finger to a spider.”
She gave me a skeptical look. “How do I know you didn’t peek?”
I raised my hands in surrender. “I’m a man of my word,” I smirked. “Tonight’s research night—whatever you want to dig into. But tomorrow? You spend Christmas with me. No sleuthing allowed. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I nudged the journal gently toward her. “Ready?”
Her eyes met mine. “God, yes. I’ve been waiting for this. My mind keeps spinning, trying to guess what she might’ve written next.”
Letting out a breath, she picked up the journal and started reading aloud.
He asked me again whose eyes he has.
I told him mine, but that’s not true. Not entirely. He doesn’t look like him. He never has.
When he was born, I remember feeling terror underneath the joy. I prayed no one would see it, that time would blur the lines, but time hasn’t helped. If anything, it’s made everything worse.
