Shattered baubles on the floor, fireworks in lieu of gunfire. The kid works around Christmas trees and towering presents. Mantelpiece displays, and nutcrackers… so many nutcrackers.
My shoulder throbs with a deep, blinding agony, pain radiating in waves to the base of my back and around to my solar plexus.
Jesus. A guy gets hit by a carone timeand his body makes him feel it for days after.
Curling my bad arm and cradling it against my chest, I use my right to push up on the couch, settling my feet on the floor and my back against the cushions.
I glance down in the darkness at the gray sweatpants I pilfered from Nick’s closet yesterday, alongside his suit, a pair of shoes, a couple of casual shirts, and a bag to keep it all in.
I mean, shit, if a guy’s gonna end up mortally wounded just a few days before Christmas, landing inside the home of a woman whose beauty literally, physically takes his breath away, then becoming pals with an insanely rich guy who wears the same size clothes is what I consider a fun little cherry on top of a not-too-unpleasant cake.
And that doesn’t even take into account the million dollar test he offered me the day we met.
The fact I wear sweatpants right now, and not jeans, is probably proof I passed.
There’s always a silver lining if one looks for it, and despite Anna’s refusal to believe in the magic of Christmas, I wholeheartedly think being hit by a car in, say, dreary old March, wouldn’t be nearly as fun.
Anna believed once before. I bet she could find the magic again if she tried hard enough.
My heart thrums with excitement, with energy and exhilaration as the dude on TV loses his face in a tragic ironing incident.
Bounding up from the couch, I leave the lights off, but the television on, and darting through the house, I work in silence, unpacking boxes and laying each new piece out for consideration.
Wreathes—Anna has half a dozen to choose from—and actual child-size Santas, just ready to hover in the shadows and scare an unsuspecting victim.
I allow the first Home Alone movie to roll into the second, with upbeat music just barely tickling my ears and the crackle of the fire warming the house. As the sun slowly rises in the east and Anna remains blissfully, beautifully asleep, I hang mistletoe from the doorway leading into the kitchen, and thick, festive garland from every surface I can manage.
Dust settles in my nose, tickling my sinuses, but even that is a fun Christmas experience in itself.
I leave space for a tree, the open, unoccupied slice of floor glaring compared to the rest of the living room.
That woman last night, the fighter who doesn’t care for competition, she’s Anna’s opposite in all the best ways, and because she was, she became a bright, beacon-like reminder of why I wanted to dance with one and not the other.
Competition, I understand. To challenge is to flirt in my world, and Anna’s life’s work is to argue inside courtrooms five days a week. The woman couldbarelycontain the nasty sneer shot Captain Bosmian’s way, and IknowI saw jealousy spark in her eyes while Kira smiled up at me.
Fuck yes, Anna knows competition.
She likes it.
I make a cup of hot chocolate and help myself to the mini marshmallows. As the clock ticks toward eight and the dry erase board sits exactly where I left it, my words still scribbled in red, I pick up the marker and use my shirt to wipe the board clean.
Humming under my breath, I consider for a beat…what to write? What to write? What the hell do I write that might, even just a little, crack the armor so tightly wrapped around Anna Maxwell’s frozen heart?
When inspiration strikes as subtly as a bolt of lightning, Ismile so broad, my cheeks push into my line of vision and my pulse thrums in my chest.
Uncapping the marker, I fold over the counter and write as neatly as I can, which is still pretty fuckin’ messy. I move from line to line, covering the whiteboard with swirling squiggles and sharp full stops.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I shoot up tall and spin to find Anna waiting beneath the mistletoe, her long, lean legs exposed under a wildly oversized hoodie much like the one she wore yesterday, her feet wrapped in a pair of purple fluffy socks, and her sleek mahogany hair, caught in a nest of sorts atop her head.
Her cheeks are too pale, her eyes are too sad, her mood… equal parts devastation and rage, madesignificantlyworse when the train meant for underneath the tree goes rogue, the little choo-choo engine chugging its way out of the living room and savagely colliding with Anna’s ankle.
“Ha.” I choke out a nervous laugh, raising one hand in surrender. A mistake, really, when red smudges from the marker paint my guilt like a cliché. “So, I know things are a little different, but I don’t want you to freak out.”
Her jaw grits and flexes, her eyes flittering around the kitchen. It’s not asChristmassyas the living room, but garland hangs across the cabinets, and a reindeer stands guard by the back door. She draws a noisy breath, her chest expanding as she peeks up at the mistletoe hanging directly above her head.
Finally, she brings fiery, not-very-nice eyes back to mine. “I’m gonna go ahead and assume our mutual car accident affected your brain more than we thought, which led you to this unfortunate, unintelligent decision where you felt it appropriate to disregardevery single thingI told you about my feelingstoward Christmas.” She flattens her lips, glowering. “I saidhey Dean, I don’t do Christmas, and that somehow translated tomy name is Dean, and I’m gonna spew tinsel all over Anna’s house while she sleeps.”
