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Which is ridiculous, considering I know how he takes his coffee, what side of the bed he sleeps on, and exactly where to kiss him to make him forget whatever he was about to say.

I know the sound of his laugh when he's genuinely happy and the way his voice changes when something's bothering him.

What I don't know is whether I'm allowed to call him mine.

We still haven't figured out how to tell Declan. Or my parents. Or anyone who might have an opinion about the fact that Hayes Bishop is sleeping with his best friend's little sister.

But things have been good.

Really good.

When he's home, we spend most nights together. Sometimes in his bed, sometimes on the couch until one of us wakes up with a stiff neck and Darcy sprawled across our legs. Bishop still leaves for practice before I'm awake some mornings, but there's usually coffee waiting for me downstairs.

And when he's on the road, we talk.

About his games. My work. Whatever ridiculous thing Darcy has done to make his displeasure known. Sometimes about nothing at all.

It's strange how quickly a person can become part of your everyday life. Stranger still when it's someone who's been part of your life for as long as you can remember.

Tonight, Bishop is somewhere between a team dinner and his hotel room, while I'm attending Wilder House Publishing's annual Christmas party.

Alone.

Which is probably a good thing.

Because if he were here, I'd spend the entire evening watching him instead of doing what I'm supposed to be doing.

Networking.

Making connections.

Convincing the people who sign my paycheck that hiring me after my internship ends would be an excellent business decision.

No pressure.

I push through the doors into Midnight Press and stop. The bookstore has been transformed.

Evergreen garlands wind along the upper shelves, dotted with tiny gold ornaments. Warm light spills from the hanging fixtures above the bar, reflecting off rows of bottles and polished glassware. Small arrangements of pine branches and white candles decorate the tables, and somewhere in the background, a jazz rendition of a Christmas song drifts through the room.

It smells like coffee, cinnamon, and the faint sweetness of vanilla.

I recognize most of the people gathered near the bar. Wilder House editors, assistants, marketing staff, and a few faces from Holden & Montgomery Media's Chicago office. Everyone looks considerably more glamorous than they do under fluorescent office lighting.

Including me.

I've traded my usual jeans and cardigan for a black satin midi skirt, a soft cream sweater that slips slightly off one shoulder, and black heeled boots. My hair falls in loose waves, and I've even managed eyeliner without having to start over three times.

A personal victory.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

I turn toward the familiar voice.

Avery stands behind the bar wearing a black dress and a Santa hat tilted at an angle.

I grin.

“Nice hat.”