Page 68 of The Christmas Romance Wish

When I was a kid and I couldn’t sleep, I’d sometimes roam around the resort, imagining I really was a princess and it was my castle. Occasionally, I’d find Chip awake, working in his office or sitting in the dark, gazing out the grand windows of the Galleon on a moonlit night like this. He’d sip warm milk—spiked with rum.

He said it helped smooth his thoughts. I pictured them as being rough like when I’d run through the sand and then a wave would roll into shore, smoothing it out as it receded. Looking back, we both had busy brains.

Maybe some warm milk will help now. I’ll skip the rum.

Padding downstairs, I hope I don’t startle Alex. After hearing his many war stories, I know he’s often on alert. But the house is quiet and only lit by the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights.

I pour milk into a saucepan and put it on the burner with low heat. Admiring the tree, I have to admit that it’s beautiful and my heart feels fuller than ever here at Eaglewood Acres.

The man fast asleep upstairs certainly has something to do with that, and I’d like to do something thoughtful to show how much it means to me.

After pouring my milk into a glass and taking a sip, I walk over to the boxes and bins that held Alex’s grandmother’s collection of Christmas decorations. We supplemented with an army Joe ornament for him, a typewriter for me, and traditional red,gold, and green bulbs. This house, already magazine-spread ready, could now be a front cover snapshot depicting this year’s must-have decor, except for the boxes and wrappings piled up along the wall.

While I’m awake, I may as well organize and stow them in the attic. I shiver. Not my favorite part of the house, but if I can handle New York City, surely I can manage a few cobwebs and shadows.

Because I nested all the smaller boxes in the big plastic tubs, I only have to tiptoe to the attic twice. Before heading back downstairs, I notice a box about twelve inches tall sitting beside the low wall next to the upper landing.

Picking it up, in vintage letters across the top it says,Choir of Angels.Beneath that is a scratched plastic window filled with craft paper.

If I’d hoped this midnight adventure would tire me out enough to go to sleep, I was wrong. Excitement buzzes through me. Alex mentioned his Gram had an angel, but he said he couldn’t find it.

Still careful to be quiet, I hurry downstairs to the kitchen. If this is the angel, I want to put it on top of the tree as Alex’s surprise. That would make his dimple pop like nothing else.

Carefully unfolding the paper, I find a figure with a porcelain head and hands, a sparkly, satin gown, and wings. This is the angel!

Now, to get it up there without breaking a limb—off the tree or my own.

Of course, Alex had to get the biggest evergreen in the woods. Then again, a small one would look silly in such a grand room with huge windows.

I need a ladder. He had one when he strung the lights. Tapping my chin, I look around. Where could it be?

The basement or the garage are my best bets. I go to the basement first in case he has the security alarm set for the garage exit.

Earlier, we wrapped presents on top of the pool table, and theevidence of our mess remains strewn everywhere. I’ll clean this up too.

With a giddy little hop, because I feel like I’m one of Santa’s elves, I make quick work of rolling up the tubes of wrapping paper, organizing the tape, scissors, ribbon, and other supplies, and picking up the little scraps that cover the pool table like snowflakes.

As luck would have it, the ladder leans against the wall by the sliding door that leads out to the BBQ area and outdoor kitchen. The thing is heavy and awkward. I have to take a break at the foot of the stairs before I go up. But I’m Emmie McGregor. I can do this!

Fifteen minutes later, the angel is on top of the tree, the ladder is back where I found it, and I’m sitting at the kitchen table, sweating slightly, and rethinking my warm milk.

But now the main room is tidy and everything looks perfect. Then I spot a small velvet box, light blue, on the bookshelf. It’s sort of wedged behind a copy of a Robert Ludlum novel that was also on Chip’s shelf.

Alex doesn’t wear jewelry...and we did split up to go Christmas shopping.

The bah humbugs soar and glide and do loop the loops.

No, this can’t be for me.

Maybe it doesn’t even contain a ring. It could contain a Medal of Honor or something.

It could be for Kissy, the fighter pilot I met at the lake who stared icicle daggers at me and love hearts at Alex. But when I think that way, I’m afraid it makes me seem immature, jealous even.

But if he asked me to marry him, what would I say?

That escalated quickly.

Of course, I’d say yes because Alex has officially thawed my heart, especially knowing the truth about his. It has a few bruises on it, but it’s big and loving and generous and safe.

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