Page 47 of The Christmas Romance Wish

“You didn’t mention that in the book.”

“Nah. Not worth the ink.”

She points to the boxes. “We can leave these out then, but it sounds like a sweet spot, so I’m glad you told me.”

Still storming outside, it’s dim up here. Even though Emmie claims not to like the holidays, she still sparkles. She makes me want to celebrate them, everything in life, with her.

We bring the decorations downstairs to the main living room. On the music app on my phone, I find an upbeat holiday playlist.

Seeing the boxes in the light of day, I half expect to feel emotional about the associated memories, but it’s more like a Christmas morning situation where I tear through them. I intermittently share anecdotes with Emmie about various decorations. Like the plastic gingerbread boy I thought was real and bit into. “Chipped a tooth.”

She laughs. “Don’t tell anyone, but gingerbread is my favorite kind of cookie.”

I cup my hand around my ear. “Do you hear what I hear? The self-proclaimed Lady Grinch admits to liking Christmas cookies?”

Emmie positions her pointer finger in front of her mouth in the universal symbol for quiet.

I make a zip-my-lips gesture. But all the attention drawn to our lips makes me want to kiss her again.

She bites her lower lip as if thinking the same thing. Despite the blizzard, warmth blazes between us.

Emmie’s gaze flits to mine in question.

My eyebrow lifts. Whatever this woman wants, it’s a yes.

I step closer. Picking up a tinsel garland, I lace it around Emmie’s neck and draw her toward me. She giggles and lifts onto her toes, gripping the back of my neck with her hands.

Once more, our mouths meet. The kiss between us builds like a snowball rolling downhill, taking us both with it.

When we part, Emmie says, “If I knew Christmastime involved this, I would’ve rethought my position sooner.”

“Tis the season to be jolly.”

We both laugh. The song in the background is “Jingle BellRock.” Taking Emmie’s hand, we bop around. Her smile could light the star on a Christmas tree. If we had one.

I don’t think she hates Christmas as much as she says she does, but I still want to know why she’s been a grump about it in the first place. Or, at the very least, I want to show her and share with her everything I’d longed for all those years that I was gone.

Next, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” plays over the speakers. We continue to dance.

Emmie says, “Have you been naughty or nice this year?”

“I think I finally made it onto the nice list.”

“Meaning you were on the naughty list? Unlikely.”

“You know every detail of the last twenty years of my life.”

“Not that you missed Christmases though. Come to think of it, you haven’t talked much about your childhood and life outside the military.”

That’s because the SEALs were my life.

In time with the song’s melody, I spin her around under my arm.

“How about you? What do you want for Christmas?” The question gives me an idea.

Her expression falters, and then she seems to snap back into the moment. “My letter would start with Dear Santa, I can explain...”

“Does that mean you were on the naughty list?”

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