He skid to a stop in front of the plaid couch and found Charlotte curled up under his mother’s afghan.
“What is she doing here?” He scowled. This was his Christmas morning. He moved the dinosaur behind him so she wouldn’t ask to play with it. A second later, he shook his head to clear it. This was Charlotte.
His Charlotte. The knowledge that they belonged together filled him from the bottom to the top.
He landed on his knees. “Charlotte?” Her raven hair hung like a waterfall over the edge of the couch. Long, dark lashes brushed her cheeks and her eyes moved under her lids. She drew in a deep, satisfied breath and her lips parted slightly.
He reached for her and drew back, afraid that if he touched her, she’d disappear. This place was weird and nothing worked quite right. If anyone would know how to get them out of this–she would. She had magic in her veins. He needed her help.
“Charlotte, wake up.” He lightly touched her shoulder. “There’s something strange going on.”
Charlotte rolled. She threw her arm over her eyes as if it was too bright for her. Blinking, she stared up at him. “Micah?”
“It’s me.” He kissed her hand and then released her quickly. “How did you get here?” He motioned to the house around him. Outside the front window, it was dark and cloudy, fuzzy.
She squinted and looked around the room. “Where… ?” She struggled to sit up. “Are you wearing tractors?” She pointed at his pants.
He glanced down, his cheeks burning. Tractors with Christmas trees and red bows.
“You’re in penguins.”
She ignored his comment on her clothing. “What’s happened?”
He shrugged, leaning against the couch next to her legs. She put a hand on the back of his neck, and he leaned into her touch. “I got up, and it’s Christmas morning. I put together my dinosaur, and then you showed up.”
She stroked the back of his neck. He remembered they’d fought and weren’t on speaking terms, but it didn’t seem to matter here. Nothing grown-up mattered. And yet, she mattered to him–very much. Maybe he should tell her that. Then, when she woke up, she’d know. But would she remember? He didn’t often remember his dreams.
She cocked her head as she contemplated the situation. “We’re dreaming?”
He nodded. “I’ve had the perfect Christmas morning. I even dug into my stocking.” He motioned to the fireplace where the contents of his stocking spread hither and yon.
“Perfect,” she mumbled. Her eyes went out of focus. “Your perfect Christmas!”
Micah’s heart stopped and then pounded fast. “You don’t think this is because of my wish? I took it back.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Is this your idea of a perfect Christmas?”
Micah glanced around the room. He could hear his mother singing softly upstairs, and the shower pipes grumbled, indicating Jonah was there.
“I guess. I mean, I always wanted to finish one of these.” He motioned to the Trex, noticing how small and shiny it was–how not soft and huggable.
Mom came running down the stairs in her bathrobe. “Your wishes are bouncing around like ping pong balls on lotto night. Be ready for a switch!” She turned and ran back up the stairs.
“What?!” Micah after back at her. “What did she say?” he asked Charlotte.
Charlotte grabbed his hand. “I don’t think that was your mom. I think it was a Kringle, and your dream state makes her look like your mom.”
“You’ve said some weird things to me before, but this–” The rest of his comment was cut off as wind blew through his living room, lifting Charlotte’s hair off her shoulders and plastering his pajamas to his body. He reached for her hand and held on tight. The wind whipped his face, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
ChapterNineteen
The wind stopped.
Charlotte barely dared to open her eyes.
Micah’s hand was firmly inside of hers. Comforting.
“Wherever we are, I’m glad we’re together,” he said. His thumb brushed her knuckles, and she squeezed his hand in return.
