Page 56 of Home for Christmas in July

Let him in. For me. If it doesn’t work out (which it totally will), move on, and let someone else in.

Don’t make me drag myself around your cottage in chains moaning at you like you’re Ebenezer Scrooge. I have better things to do in my afterlife.

Love,

Carol

At some point during my second read-through, my tears turn to laughter. It’s as if Carol is sitting across from me, eating scones and telling me how it is. And my heart, which was so heavy, is light. Full, but light.

I look up to see Nick watching me.

“You okay?” His voice is husky.

I nod. “I am. Are you?”

“I’m good. Carol, she’s something else.”

A smile blooms on my lips. “Yes, she is.”

He jerks his chin. “What’s in the box? Did the letter say?”

I blink. “No, it didn’t.”

I forgot all about the box. I stand up, pull it toward me,and remove the lid. Several sheets of green tissue paper are wrapped around the contents of the box. I unfold the thin paper and lift out a red, short-sleeved, A-line vintage cocktail dress with a white shawl collar and two rows of white buttons on the bodice. I hold it up and meet Nick’s eye.

“This is Carol’s summer Mrs. Claus dress,” I say slowly.

“I think it’s yours now. If you want it.”

Mine?

I blink and break eye contact. I look down at the dress in my hands and spot a note tucked into one of the pockets. I pluck it out and read it aloud.

Noelle, Nick’s going to need a Mrs. Claus for the Christmas in July festival. It’s easy: wear the dress, smile at the kids, and hand out the candy canes. ~ Carol

He guffaws. Then his face grows serious. He pushes back his chair and stands up, facing me. “Will you do it?”

Dickens’ admonition—and Carol’s—runs through my mind. I almost have to, don’t I? Take this chance, seize this opportunity?

“If the dress fits, I’ll do it,” I say.

He grins widely. Without thinking, I stretch up on my tiptoes and drop a kiss on the corner of his upper lip. He takes the dress from me, gently returns it to the box, and covers my mouth with deep, searching kisses.

More kissing?I could get used to this. I picture a life where there’s just so much kissing. Kissing over breakfast frittatas, at red lights, while walking a dog that we don’t have but could get, during fiercely competitive Scrabble games that I willobviously win. My mind spins out a future while my mouth responds eagerly to Nick’s need. I wrap my arms around his neck and lace my fingers together behind his head.

He comes up for air. “Carol was right.”

I give him a look. “Duh. Carol wasalwaysright.”

He laughs, then dives back into his thorough exploration of my mouth. I pull him closer. He can’t be close enough to satisfy me. As his tongue dances with mine, his hands skim my waist, and then he brushes his fingers across the sliver of bare skin between the top of my yoga pants and the hem of my shirt. A delicious shiver runs through me.

He growls low in his throat and moves his lips to my neck. I press into him and?—

The door flies open. “Noelle? Is that your blue hatchback parked in the alley?”

Marley Jacobs peers at us with a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and concern as we jump apart.

I smooth my hair and straighten my shirt. “Yeah. I know it’s parked illegally. We’re done here, I think, so I’ll?—”

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