Page 43 of Their Christmas Miracle

Elle realized she was tapping the side of the glass again, and made herself stop.

I know, all right Sam? There’s no denying it. But it’s fine. Well, no, it’s not fine, but I understand.

Dammit, that wasn’t what she was going to say.

I’m not here to fight. I came here to tell you that it’s over, okay? It’s over Sam. And it probably has been for a long time. I just didn’t realize it. Maybe you didn’t either. Either way, we’re through. So now all we have to figure out is—

“You’re early.” Sam’s voice snapped her from her thoughts like a whip to her rump.

She tried forcing her shoulders to relax, but could only watch the man from the corner of her eyes as he came around the table and seated himself opposite her.

He still wore his work suit — all charcoal and pinstripes and oozing money. For a moment, he stared at her with narrowed eyes, as if she was a puzzle he was trying to decide to figure out, or pay someone to dissemble for him. Then he smiled; warmly, disarmingly, widely.

“You eat yet, babe?”

“What? No, of course not. I mean—” She cut herself off by taking a deep swig of her wine.

Sam lifted his chin toward the wine glass. “How many of those have you had?”

Elle blinked at him, managed a blustering, “I’m not drunk—”

And was again interrupted by the waiter materializing at her side.

“Evening, sir. What can I—”

“Double Jack. On the rocks.” Sam delivered this without taking his eyes off Elle.

He slid his hand onto the table, lifting the end of a fork and making it dance on its tines. All the while staring at her with that same wide, stretching smile of his.

Time for the script.

Just breathe, Elle.

Elle wriggled forward in the chair until she sat perched on the edge. She set her elbows down, gripped her hands together and took a deep, calming breath.

“Hate the food here,” Sam said. “You forget?”

Elle dipped her head, closing her mouth. Screw it, that statement didn’t even dignify a response. Another breath, longer this time. She tightened the grip on her fingers.

“Sam—”

“Been very distracted lately, babe.” Sam made the fork spin, light catching on its polished surface. “So how long’s it been going on?”

Elle’s skin flashed ice cold. Her breath became trapped somewhere in the bottom of her lungs, making her chest ache for its release. She stared across the table at Sam, her ears singing for a moment.

What?

“That… what’s his name?”

“Hector?” This came out more a wheeze than a word.

“That’s it. Makes sense: you remembering your fling’s name, but not that I can’t stand this place’s food.”

Sam let the fork fall. It struck a knife with sharp clang that made Elle release her stagnant breath in a whoosh.

“Look, babe, it’s been fun. But it’s obvious you’ve got commitment issues.”

Elle made a strangled sound that was supposed to be a protest — not at the statement, despite how absurd it was, but at the fact that Sam had somehow wrangled this conversation out of her control.

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