Page 54 of Scrooge

“I didn’t know if you were awake. How are you feeling?” I ask, pushing open his bedroom door and seeing him back in bed. Now, with damp hair and a fresh change of t-shirt and gray sweatpants. He looks normal, out of his suit, a regular guy, albeit sick, yet still extremely good-looking.

“Still like I’ve been hit by a truck,” he sulks, resting his head on the pillow, looking at me through dopey eyes. I lean over him and rest my hand on his forehead.

“Your temperature is better,” I tell him as I pull the blanket over him and help get him comfortable. Just as I’m straightening back up, he grabs my hand.

“Lie with me,” he says quietly, and I look at him. His eyes have dark circles, even though he has slept. His face is still a little pale, but he does look much better than yesterday. My insides melt, seeing his wet, ruffled hair and the stubble along his jaw. Even with the flu, he is handsome. I offer him a small smile. It should feel weird being this close, but when we kissed, we crossed a line; we both know it, yet neither of us seem to care.

“Sure, for a little while. But you do need to rest.” I crawl onto his bed and lie next to him. My body sinks into the warm comfort, and my muscles relax. I haven’t been in a bed that feels so comfortable. The pull-out bed that I am currently sleeping on at my sister’s has a rouge spring that digs into my side every night. But not here. Here, with Alex, it feels like a warm welcome after a long day. It should feel odd, considering the short time we’ve known each other, but I am totally at ease. We both stare at the ceiling, and I feel his hand edge out and grab on to mine where they rest between us. His pinkie first, gripping mine until he moves his hand, holding it securely.

“Tell me about your favorite holiday?” he asks, and I smile, rolling onto my side to face him. He looks at me, his grin small but there.

“Christmas?” I tell him.

“Yes, okay. What do you love the most about it?” Our heads on the pillows, our hands still holding between us, he turns to face me as well.

“I love decorating a tree. A real tree. I enjoy pulling out the decorations, reminiscing about where they all came from. I love putting on Christmas carols, giving life to the otherwise ordinary room.” Thinking about the feeling it evokes, I smile.

“What else?” he prods.

“I love when it snows outside and I am warm inside. A fire going, maybe a glass of red wine. I love baking biscuits and the smell traveling through the house. Cinnamon and pine are my two favorite aromas that time of year.”

“What is on your list from Santa?” His grin widens and so does mine. I like seeing him like this. Just Alex. Just my Alex, not some billionaire CEO who is hard and lonely and sad. This happy Alex, the one who smiles, is warm and brilliant and someone I can talk to.

“The same thing I want every year,” I tell him, sighing, knowing I probably won’t get it this year either.

“What’s that?”

“A dog.”

“A dog?” His eyebrows rise, surprised.

“Yeah. I want a puppy. A little friend I can take everywhere. I’ve asked my family for a dog every year since I was five. We can’t get one because my dad is allergic. But I still add it to my list. I’d call him Henry.”

“What about you?” I ask, because what does the man who can buy anything want for Christmas?

“I’ve never really celebrated Christmas. My mother died in childbirth, and my father was so focused on the business that we didn’t really celebrate milestones or holidays. We acknowledged them, maybe having a meal together, but it wasn’t a meaningful thing,” he says, opening up to me.

“Never?” My eyebrows pull together, my heart heavy.

“No. I think our last Christmas together, we went out for a quick lunch, but we still spoke about work. We didn’t really have a break.” His expression falls a little.

“Why do you think your dad was so work oriented?” I can appreciate hard work and dedication, but his dad sounds almost addicted to success.

“He was like that for his entire life, but people have told me he was very different when my mother was alive. Apparently, when she died, he lost himself. Buried himself in work.”

“A bit like you, perhaps?” I say tentatively, not sure where his head is at with it all. This is the first time we have spoken about his family and upbringing in depth, and I don’t want to upset him. He is quiet, thinking on that point for a moment, and I wonder briefly if I have overstepped.

“I guess.” He nods in agreement, our eyes lingering on each other’s for a quiet moment. I hope, maybe, that’s changed for him now… or that more time off from work is in his future. That he can take some time off for a holiday, or just because he wants to every now and then.

“So the media are having a field day since Thanksgiving,” I say to change the subject, playing with the giant diamond that glistens on my finger. He holds my hand up and looks at it, and something akin to pride flashes across his face. I haven’t looked too far into all the stories. Jillian keeps me updated on anything significant, but the rest is just noise, so I ignore it for the sake of my mental health.

“They are certainly pushing about Deloris and her prostitution,” he murmurs, not happy about it.

“It was so long ago, I wish they would just drop it. People change. Life moves on. We can't all be held to our mistakes that we made in the past.” I shake my head against the pillow.

“Have you made mistakes?” he asks, and I smile, thinking he is joking, but he looks serious.

“Yeah, I've made a few.” I automatically think of my ex.

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