“Poppy,” Ronan growls.
“Yes?” His voice halts my mental juggling of my calendar.
“Do you want to organize the New Year’s parade this year? Practically by yourself?”
“Not really,” I admit. I can’t believe that pops out of my mouth in front of Conner, but it does. There’s something about Ronan’s no-bullshit approach that inspires me.
“But you’re so good at it.” Conner looks a little shocked.
“The lady said no,” Ronan snaps.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t mean to what? Guilt her into volunteering even more of her time when she’s already said she can’t? Do you have any idea how much she does for this town? She volunteers at the senior center. She’s on a million committees. She teaches free art classes. She’s helping with the charity ball. She’s constantly doing favors for her family and half the town. If you respect her, you’ll respect it when she says no.”
“Ronan.” I set a hand on his tense muscles, feeling the steel of his biceps beneath my palm.
Mixed emotions roll through me. My cheeks are pink from being the cause of a small scene. But there’s also the warmth of someone understanding me, championing me in a way that no one ever has. I’m always being called to volunteer for everything. My parents sign me up for things without my permission—coworkers and friends as well. They assume I’m always available.
And I guess I always have been. With no family of my own, no kids, no husband, people consider me to be endlessly available to meet everyone else’s needs. And I’ve been so busy that it was easy to put my own projects on the back burner. My own dreams and desires.
I square my shoulders, gaining support from Ronan’s mountainous presence next to me. “Thank you, Conner. But Ronan’s right. My no is firm. I just don’t have the time in my schedule right now. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
Conner nods stiffly with a glare toward Ronan. He won’t be showing up at Ronan’s door to borrow a cup of sugar. I hope, though, this doesn’t affect his willingness for Belle and Sasha to play.
“So,” Conner says, changing the subject and filling the silence that has grown uncomfortable. “What brings you here? I can’t imagine you need a Christmas tree since I understand you’re done filming soon. You’ll be leaving before the holidays, right?” Conner says pointedly to Ronan.
Ronan’s nostrils flare. “As a matter of fact, we were just about to pick out a tree now.” His smile would be considered deadly if he were in one of his movies. It’s the one he gives his enemies right before he knocks them out. “And that’s the thing about schedules, Conner. They can change.”
I look up at Ronan, startled. Did he just imply there’s a possibility they could stay later? I decide he’s just being contrary to annoy Conner. Even if they do stay until Christmas, it doesn’t mean he’d need or want a nanny around while he was off work.
But it doesn’t stop me from wishing for my own Christmas miracle and having them a little while longer.
For Belle. Just for Belle.
Can I get on Santa’s naughty list for lying—to myself?
* * *
Two hours later,we’re back at home. We’ve unpacked the Christmas boxes I brought here from my parents’ storage. And we’re ready to start tree decorating.
“It looks like a holiday horror movie,” Ronan says in disgust as he surveys the destruction of the living room. Every piece of furniture, every mantel, and much of the floor are covered by boxes, bags, and various Christmas decor.
“Why, thank you. That’s exactly the aesthetic I was going for,” I say. “And thanks for reminding me. We need to have a Christmas movie playing in the background while we decorate the tree. For vibes.”
I try not to laugh at his expression. But he doesn’t object, so I know he’s on board with the movie idea.
I search for the television remote under a mountain of tinsel. “Aha!” I cry when I find it and click through way too many channels until I find the right one. When I find a Christmas romance, I turn up the volume and let out a contented sigh, which is very different from Ronan’s grumpy sigh.
“Now we need sustenance before the decorating starts,” I say.
He shakes his head.
Mulled wine and a smaller pan of hot chocolate that I made earlier simmer on the stove. I ladle out some hot chocolate, put it in my favorite Rudolph Christmas mug, sprinkle some marshmallows over the top, add a stick of candy cane, then hand it to Belle. “Make sure it’s not too hot,” I warn her.
“Wine or hot chocolate?” I ask Ronan. And then I hold up a hand. “Think before answering. If you say you want a green smoothie, you’ll be pulled from your bed by Christmas elves and pummeled with candy canes.”
“Is that a plot from one of your holiday movies?” he asks.
