He recovered instantly, placing a perfectly timed kiss against her cheek.
“Best of luck to you today,” I added. “Enjoy your final weekend of rehearsal before the holidays.”
“Thank you so much, Miss Dawson.”
“Yes,” Nicholas said. “Thank you very much, Miss Dawson.”
“Do you need anything else from me?” I asked, forcing my voice steady as Laura pressed her hand against his chest—exactly how I’d instructed her. “I have a busy morning ahead.”
“I thought you’d planned to watch us and take notes today,” Nicholas said. His tone softened. “That’s what I have on my calendar…”
“I must’ve forgotten to update it,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll be great together.”
“I would appreciate it if you stayed a bit longer with me,” he said. “I mean,us.”
“I…” I shook my head and moved past them. “I can’t. Good luck.”
I rushed down the hall and stepped into an open elevator, a heavy and unfamiliar pang settling in my chest.
For the firsttime in my years at Saint International, I went an entire afternoon without running into Nicholas—without talking to him on the phone, and without receiving or sending a single text message.
And strangely, it hurt.
I told myself it was nothing that a bottle of wine and a binge-watch couldn’t fix, so I didn’t bother trying to adjust anything before leaving the office.
After packing up my things, I took a town car to my condo and turned off my phone, craving a few quiet hours alone.
Still uneasy, I unlocked my door and flicked on the lights.
“Choooo! Choooo!” A tiny red train chugged around the base of my Christmas tree.
A tree that was glowing, trimmed, and unmistakably not my doing.
My bag slipped from my hand as I stepped inside.
Garland lined my mantel, threaded with warm white lights that reflected off fresh red chrysanthemums arranged in sparkling vases I didn’t own. Twinkling stars hung from the ceiling at varying heights, casting soft shadows across the room.
On my coffee table, familiar frames held my favorite holiday memories—photos I’d collected over the years—now dressed with sprigs of holly and tiny bells, as if someone had taken the time to remember not just the season…
…but me.
I blinked hard, the sting behind my eyes impossible to ignore.
A yellow Post-it note sat atop my letter to Santa.
Jenna,
I hope you won’t file a report on me for breaking and entering…
I just wanted to make sure this was all finished before Christmas Day, since you never miss a year.
—Nicholas
P.S. It’s slightly hypocritical for you to complain about my naughty/nice list when you write things like this about me to Santa…
P.P.S. You’re welcome.
7B
