Page 30 of The Christmas Romance Wish

Emmie says, “I can’t believe I’ve been living in an imaginary love triangle. This might make a good romance plot. It could be a twist to my story of unrequited love.”

“You could write a memoir.”

“No. I don’t have a story,” she murmurs.

As I cruise down the driveway toward the gate, Emmie hiccups.

I glance at her, hoping she’s okay and doesn’t get carsick from the curving mountain roads.

She grips the handrest. “Excuse me. I get the hicc?—“

“Need water?” I lift my water bottle partially out of the cup holder.

“Thank you, but they’ll go away soon. Prob-hiccup—ably.”

I pull onto the road as the hiccups continue at regular intervals.

“I’ve heard of ways to get rid of hiccups.” I list a few such as gulping water, plugging your fingers in your ears, and sucking on a lemon.

“I’ve tried them all.”

“Nothing works?”

“Well, there is one way, but usually they go away on their own.” She hiccups again.

“What’s the trick?”

The big snowflakes, almost distinct as they fall from the sky, get heavier. Looks like we have an incoming blizzard.

“Um, the trick is, hiccup—” She doesn’t finish.

“Hiccup?” I repeatbut not actually hiccupping.

“No, um, the trick is, um, kissing.”

I glance at her. Expression impassive, I don’t get the sense she’s joking around. “Seriously?”

“Like a kiss from a prince in Sleeping Beauty, Your Majesty, Princess, Royal Lady of the Circle of Mad Mojo, Order of the First Degree, Queen of Eaglewood Acres?”

Emmie laughs around another volley of hiccups.

I suppose I could be her knight in snowy armor, riding in with my Jeep to the rescue. Kissing her would be a service, a duty to kin and country to ensure a safe and pleasant journey on the plane. She’s quiet for a few long minutes, possibly concentrating on getting rid of the hiccups.

“Since I’m leaving soon—hiccup—I’d like to clear something up. We have to continue working together for the next couple of weeks. Hiccup.”

“Is there another big misunderstanding?”

“Sort of. Hiccup. You seemed annoyed at me during the workshop like you were upset that I came. Hiccup.”

“Upset at you? No, not at all. All this time, I’ve been mission-driven. My focus has been on the business—the book is part of that. Told myself no distractions from the objective. Then you showed up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Please. It’s all very immature of me—not in the Paxton playing video games kind of way. More like a game of war with myself. I saw you and—” It was instant. I fall silent, the reality of my feelings hitting me like sleet on blacktop.

Emmie rambles like she’s trying to fill the uncomfortable quiet, but I have to come forth with the truth before she leaves.

Interrupting, I say, “You’re not what I expected. This isn’t what I thought—” I take a deep breath. I can talk to superiors with ease, outline battle plans, and recount missions, surely I can break this barrier. “Emmie, I feel like I know you. You’ve been helping me write my story. You know more about me than all the guys at the workshop combined.”

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