Page 151 of Perfect Pitch

I nod.

And as many times as I mentally hoped a random sax player would drop in to open this song, I take every stray thought back when my father begins playing. Our arms cross as I play the traditional song and he counters, overlaying a whole different melody.

The room goes wild.

I beam at Beckett before I steer back into the regular pattern of the song. He takes my lead and does the same. From the depths of my heart, I sing, “Merry Christmas!”

All too soon, the song ends. I wrap things up with my usual flourish and raucous cheers. Then my father bumps his hip into mine before announcing clearly, “Okay, kid. My turn.”

I stand before archly stating, “At least I have the courtesy to give way when another artist is playing.”

Beckett rolls his eyes at me just before I saunter away from the piano, but I don’t mind sharing the spotlight, not when it gets me what I want that much earlier.

As I approach Mitch, where my uncle Jesse’s been looming behind him, I stop and meet his eyes. Then I cast my glance upward. Since I helped Mama hang the mistletoe earlier, I know where it all is.

I know exactly what I’m doing.

I’m asking him to make a statement here in front of the people who love me, in front of those who helped raise me.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Without a word to Jesse, his long legs carry him three strides forward until he’s standing directly in front of me. Holding his drink carefully away from my dress, he hooks his other arm around my waist. I know that years from now, if I remember nothing else about tonight, I’ll remember what it felt like to be visually unwrapped by this man.

Right before he lowers his head and claims my lips in front of my parents, family, and loved ones.

It’s not just a kiss, it’s a declaration of intent—a promise of a future we’ve yet to flesh out. But a promise it is. I know it down to the depths of my soul.

When he’s done, my heart is thudding against my ribs. Whether it’s the expression on my face or just because he wants me closer, Mitch lifts me off my feet as his eyes probe mine. I twine my arms around his neck, pulling myself tightly against him. Pressing my lips against his, I whisper, “Merry Christmas, Mitch. I want you to know something.”

“What’s that, Beats?” His arm clutches me tighter, refusing to let me fall.

And something settles inside me. Unlike the uncertainty of my childhood, I know this man will never let me down. I can hand him my heart and he’ll treasure it the same way I value his. I drag my arms from around his neck until I’m cupping his cheeks. “It may be way too soon to say this, but I—‍”

“Love you,” he finishes.

My lips part in surprise. “You do?”

“I’ve been falling since the night I met you.”

A mist clouds his image in front of me. “Same.”

Completely serious, he asks, “Do you think we can escape to somewhere where there’s snow?”

I give it a great deal of consideration before I turn down his offer. “No. But we have tomorrow.”

He lowers me to my feet and holds me to his side. “And all our tomorrows after that, Beats. Count on it.”

Just then, my father finishes playing to rousing applause. He stands and stalks—there are no two ways about it—in the direction of my mother. I beam up at Mitch. “Want to keep me company while I entertain the guests?”

“Do you expect me to sing?”

“Absolutely.” I grab his hand and make for the piano.

“Then you better know how much I love you if you expect me to carry a tune,” he grumbles good-naturedly.

I sit on the piano bench and begin another jaunty tune with an enormous smile and Mitch’s arm around me.

There’s no place I’d rather be than right here where I am, I muse. The holidays might have started out mired down in deception and pain, but they’ve changed in a big way.

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