Page 42 of Their Christmas Miracle

Let it Snow

I

’Twas the Night Before Christmas

Elle

Elle tapped the side of her glass with her nail. There was almost nothing left, how she’d been chewing at it, but she’d taken the time this morning to file it down and varnish it. She’d made sure it matched her outfit — or, at least, the pink blouse she wore as part of her outfit. Her suit was a neutral tan — her high heels matching perfectly.

Sam hated this suit. He also hated the blouse — had told her it was too frilly and girly for her.

He also hated it when she wore heels, because then he’d had to look at her.

He hated a lot of things. One of which, she was pretty damn sure, was her.

Her hand trembled slightly when she lifted the wine glass to her lips. He was late. Probably not on purpose — traffic here had been terrible. She’d had to take a taxi — her car was still in the shop — and the cab driver had been just as irritated as her when they’d come to a screeching halt a few blocks from the restaurant. She’d decided to get out and walk; she hadn’t wanted to be late.

Hadn’t wanted Sam to come in, see she wasn’t here, and leave.

Because he’d do that.

And she wouldn’t be able to do this again. To gather what little courage she could and—

“Can I bring you another, ma’am?”

Elle jerked, turning wide eyes to the waiter standing beside her.

Her wine glass was empty. When had that happened? She managed a shake of her head, which somehow turned into a nod, and the man disappeared as effortlessly as he’d managed.

Elle shifted in her seat, glancing around through her lashes. She’d only been to the Golden Goose restaurant twice before. It was one of the one’s Sam swore never to return to after a bad experience with his Napoletana. She’d quite liked their lasagne bisque, even if they could have gone a little easier on the béchamel.

Dammit, what the hell was she doing, thinking about béchamel?

Admittedly, it was better than staring at the towering Christmas tree. The one that gloated at her as its golden baubles glittered and gleamed in the restaurant’s low light.

’Twas the night before Christmas…

But it was now or never.

She straightened her spine, let out a long, slow breath, and mentally ran through her script. Again.

Look, Sam, I know about her, okay? There’s no use trying to deny it. I know. And you know what? I don’t care. I did, obviously, at first. But I don’t anymore. Because I realized something, Sam. I realized that, even if I hadn’t found out, that—

“Ma’am?”

She glared up at the waiter. Couldn’t they put a damn bell on the guy, or something? He didn’t seem to notice — or care — about her irritation. Setting the glass down and taking away her empty, he paused.

“Are you ready to order?”

“I’m waiting for someone,” Elle said, her voice tight with indignation. As if she’d come to a restaurant alone! What kind of—

“Will your partner be joining you shortly?”

“He was already—” she cut off what she’d been going to say, let out another unsteady breath, and said, “—yes. Shortly.”

“It’s just, we have a couple waiting for a table.” Elle’s eyes tracked across the restaurant to where the maitre d pointed. In one of the restaurant’s georgous alcoves, sat an unlikely pair — the man neat as a pin and dressed in a dark suit. Beside him, a hippy of a girl with multicoloured hair and the kind of clothing that only looked amazing on mannequins…and, well, her.

The waiter nodded, his eyes fluttering just enough to tell her that he’d seen enough desperate causes to know she was one of them.

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