He clears his throat. “Then we’ll go out in the field and get one.”
“Or a wreath over the mantle?”
He shakes his head, a slight grin appearing. “We can do that, too.”
“You don’t think it’s too much?”
“My opinion doesn’t matter. I told you to make this space yours, and I know how much you love Christmas. I also expect you’ll want to haul in some fresh garland. Swap the sheets, pillows, and blanket, and cover every inch of available surface in this room with knick-knacks.”
“And how would you know all that?” I ask, even though he’s spot on across the board.
He steps closer. “Because I remember how you decorated your apartment back in Texas, right down to the pine-scented candles and the themed bath soaps.”
Sometimes I forget who I was before Phoebe. Granted, I’m still here, but I feel muted sometimes. Like I’ve had to cover up bits of myself to adapt to motherhood. There’s no time for hobbies, classes, or frivolous extras when the budget is practically non-existent some months.
I usually stare wistfully at the cranberry soap on the end cap at Target and move on. Or at the cute themed shower curtain and bath towels that match.
I wonder what else he remembers that’s less grainy to him than it is to me.
“You’re forgetting the cinnamon-scented pine cones in a basket on the counter,” I say.
It sat right beside framed pictures of us and a cute snowman we picked up at a holiday flea market on the weekend. He was covered in glitter, like shimmery snow. Phoebe adopted him and named him Olaf. He lives permanently on her dresser because I finally got tired of arguing with a small child that he was supposed to be only for seasonal decorations.
It was the first of many untraditional traditions we made around the house.
“Couldn’t forget those.” His voice is a low timbre now, scraping over my nerves in a delicious way that makes me feel woozy. “I think of you every time I smell them in a store.”
“Help me then? Just one thing. We can start small,” I whisper, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Lights around the poster bed.”
His mouth tips. “I might know where some live.” He crosses to the storage bench at the foot of the bed, lifts the lid, and pulls out a couple of neatly coiled strands of warm lights. “I might’ve expected this request and picked up a couple.”
“That’s convenient.” I toe off my boots and climb onto the mattress in my fuzzy socks.
Without saying a word, I hold my hand out for the first string of lights.
He’s there before I form words, fingers light as we transfer the strand. Then he barks out a couple of commands to a smart speaker system, which immediately plays a quiet Christmas song.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, pausing to find his eyes.
“I know.” He bobs his head. “But I can handle this.”
“Okay.”
He follows me around the bed as I loop the cord around the top post, then up and down each vertical post. When I need another, he hands it to me wordlessly. Every once in a while, I get so close to the edge that his palm meets my waist, warm through the fabric of my sweater.
When I stretch on my toes to loop around the last pole, his hand tightens, steadying me, and something in the old house seems to exhale. The fireplace stones tick as they warm, and a sap-sweet scent edges the air—probably the heat pulling it out of the old pine beams… except the fire isn’t even lit.
“Moment of truth,” he murmurs, handing me the end of the extension cord he plugged in behind the nightstand.
His fingers brush mine as I wrap my own around it, then the room blooms gold.
I bend and balance on one leg to step down, but my balance shifts with the dip in the mattress, and I topple over. But I don’t land on the floor. I land in Aiden’s arms.
We were close before, but now is something entirely different. Our breaths are shaky from my near accident, our faces only several inches apart. Every moment before held a hint of “dangerous”. Now it’s leaving promises in my bloodstream.
My common sense waves tiny little surrender flags, while my name falls from his lips in a half-warning, half-plea.
He gently sets my feet on the floor so that he can free a hand. I assume his goal is to push me into a literal meltdown, because the next thing I know, his fingers graze my cheek as they tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I tip forward, just enough to close a little distance. His nose skims mine, and our mouths hover in that excruciating moment where anyone with half a brain would take the next step.
