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She wipes her tears with the heels of her hands. “You’re not?”

I shake my head, giving her the softest of smiles. “Not even close. Now go to bed. Get some sleep.”

Her brows knit together. “Theo⁠—”

“I mean it.” My voice softens. “You’ve had a hell of a day.”

I pick up my case. “Goodnight, Georgia,” I tell her, stepping away even though every cell in my body wants to walk toward her. “And Merry Christmas.”

I close the door behind me, walking away while I can. Because in a moment I might lose my mind.

Focus. I need to start planning how to win her back. And start figuring out how long a man can wait outside in the cold.

GEORGIA

An hour later, I’m still not sleepy. It’s almost one a.m., and it feels like the least Christmassy Christmas Eve I’ve ever experienced. I haven’t watched a festive movie, I haven’t been listening to Mariah. Literally nothing is going to make me feel good right now.

Sighing, I head to the kitchen to make myself a chamomile tea when I see something in the lamplight on the sidewalk.

Not something, someone.

I step closer to the window, my heart starting to thud. There’s a figure sitting on the bench beneath the lamp. A man. He’s tall, with broad shoulders, his hands shoved into the pockets of his dark woolen coat.

It’s Theo, I know it is. How long has he been there? And more importantly, how much longer does he intend to stay there?

I frown as I make the tea, trying to figure him out. Finally, I crack and grab my phone, typing out a message as I pour in the hot water.

Why are you sitting outside on the sidewalk? You must be freezing. – Georgia

A moment later, his reply arrives.

I didn’t want you to be alone for Christmas. Now try to get some sleep. – Theo

You must be freezing. Do you need some coffee? – Georgia

I’m fine. It’s a beautiful night and I’m exactly where I want to be. And no coffee. I’m not your problem to solve. – Theo

I stare down at the message and then look back at the street. He still hasn’t moved. Perturbed, I take my chamomile tea into my bedroom and sit cross-legged on the mattress, blowing gently across the surface before taking a sip.

Every part of me wants to either bring him a blanket or drag him inside. It feels physically uncomfortable not to.

I let out a frustrated groan, because I’m supposed to be putting myself first, but I don’t even know what that means. Does it mean not giving in to the urge to make him comfortable?

Ugh, why does this have to be so difficult? I want my mom.

So I call her.

“Georgia?” Her voice is thick with sleep when she answers. “What’s wrong?”

Of course she immediately assumes disaster. I never call her at this hour.

“Sorry,” I say. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Where are you? Still in Norfolk? Or did you go back to London?”

I’ve been keeping her updated with the broad strokes of my movements. Apparently not well enough, though.

“I’m in New York.”