Page 6 of The Christmas Romance Wish

The guys in my group and I agreed to keep all the good from our years in the service and ditch the rest—also a work in progress.

“You should bring this little dress too,” the second voice says from Emmie’s line.

There’s shuffling on the other end of the phone. “Sorry about that. Anything else I can bring from the Big Apple?”

The other person hollers something, but it’s muffled.

Through the phone, a door closes. “Seriously. Sorry. She’s got it in her head—never mind. I’m all set to fly and will see you tomorrow.” A certain nervousness filters throughher voice, but I’m fairly sure the emphasis was on the wordflyand not the part about meeting me.

Despite my background and the stories I’ve shared while we’ve been co-writing, I’m a well-adapted civilian now. She’s not in any danger. It’s not like we’re meeting in a dark alley.

“Excellent. Sydney’s flight will arrive before yours so you can ride to the ranch together. I’ll loop you into a group text so the two of you can connect.”

“I can rent a car.”

“We’ve got it covered. The roads can be rough up this way. I’m just about finished reading the final manuscript and am looking forward to finalizing everything in person,” I say, in case she’s worried about that.

“Great. Me too.”

For the first time in our many conversations, the awkward ripples from the beginning don’t smooth out. We don’t segue into a discussion about regular things—the specials from her favorite bakery, life in New York, or me out here on the ranch.

I say, “Safe travels tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I hope so.” She’s quiet for a moment.

She must be nervous about the trip. This would be a good time to say something reassuring. Heck, if I knew she didn’t like to fly, I would’ve driven out there instead.

“See you soon.”

Emmie says, “Can’t wait to see y—your snow and the mountains.”

“It hasn’t snowed there yet?”

“Just a few scattered flakes. Nothing that stuck around.”

“We have plenty of the white stuff. It’s been windy too. Let’s hope for blue skies and no storms for the weekend.”

Now we’re talking about the weather when so often our conversations are meaningful or humorous. Even our emails get deep or funny, depending on which chapter of the book we were on. Emmie is a master at pacing, getting into the thick of a story,building tension, and then giving the reader a reprieve before dropping them off a cliff.

The last thing I want is for our meeting to be awkward with us so close to the completion of the project. I’ve always been of the mind to quit a winner. But why would it be awkward? This is a professional relationship. Nothing more.

For all I know, Emmie is a cave beast. She could also be married to one, and her husband is reluctant for her to meet with me.

Still on the phone, she rambles, almost nonsensically, about packing and wrapping everything up before she leaves—a bit odd since she’s usually so good with words. She mentions having to move after New Year’s and something about a penthouse high rise.

“Sorry. I’m procrastinating. I’ll go now.”

Giving my head a shake, I simply say, “See you tomorrow, Emmie.”

But before either one of us ends the call, excited squealing comes through the speaker.

The same voice from the background says, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold the phone, Doodles. You didn’t tell me his voice sounded like that. And the way he said your name?—”

Then the line goes quiet.

My voice is like what?

“What did she mean about my voice?” I say, wondering if there’s something in it that I’ve never noticed.

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