Page 75 of Rebound

She replies quick as a flash.

Next time, invite me.

I grin and tell her I will. After making sure pizza doesn’t breed bacteria like leftover chicken, I wrap up what’s left and put it in the fridge. I’m still not the world’s greatest cook, and that will take care of tomorrow. It’s a small thing, but one that shows how much my life has changed. I no longer have a housekeeper or a huge kitchen stocked with food that arrived there as if by magic. No more daily lunch meetings either. I no longer have a lot of things I took for granted, and I miss none of them—apart from him.

I sit down on the couch and pour myself another glass of wine. I still miss Elijah, and no matter how much I’m trying to rebuild without him, that tug in his direction doesn’t seem to fade. I’m not sure it ever will. Maybe it’s something I’ll simply have to learn to live with.

To offset the feeling of melancholy that’s starting to creep over me, I do what I usually do—turn on the TV. I get lucky with an episode ofBones, which has always been a guilty pleasure of mine. Except no, I remind myself, not a guilty pleasure at all—if a single woman in her forties can’t enjoy watching a hunky FBI agent team up with a beautiful-but-nerdy forensics specialist, then what is the world coming to?

The will-they-won’t-they vibe of their romance while they solve a gruesome murder helps to distract me from thinking about Elijah. If I think about him, I will eventually call him, and that is a terrible idea tonight.

A knock on the door makes me jump so hard I spill my wine. In my defense, it comes at a particularly tense moment when two lead characters are buried alive by a deranged serial killer. Getting up, I remember my self-defense lessons—number one of which is avoid getting into a situation where you need to use them at all. I peek through the drapes and do a double take. Either I drank a lot more alcohol than I remember, or Santa Claus is on my doorstep. I close the drapes, pause for a moment, then look again. He’s still there. I stare some more, and as he turns his face toward me, I realize that Mr. Claus is in fact Elijah. Amused, I rush to open the door.

“Ho ho ho,” he says, completely deadpan.

“Who are you calling a ho?” I reply, hands on hips. I look him up and down and burst out laughing. He looks ridiculous in his red suit and floppy hat, the fake bushy beard hanging from his face like a comatose sheep.

“Can I come in?” he asks. “This thing is not as warm as it looks. But I shouldn’t complain—I got it from a late-night store in Times Square for only twenty bucks. Hopefully the real Father Christmas has better insulation.”

I gesture for him to come in, and he stands in the entry, blowing on his hands for a few seconds. “Um, not that this isn’t very festive, but why are you here? And why are you wearing a cheap Santa suit?”

“Well, because I didn’t have time to buy an expensive one, obviously. You told me your Christmas tree needed help, so I come bearing baubles. Can I interest you in the contents of my sack, young lady?” He waggles his eyebrows at me suggestively, and I roll my eyes. He shouldn’t be here. But it’s late, and I’ve had wine, and I was missing him. Plus, he looks hotter than he has any right to dressed up as Santa.

“Have at it,” I say, showing him the tree. “And what’s that smell?”

“That depends. Do you like it?”

“I do, but I can’t quite identify it.”

He tugs off the fake beard, which is much better. His own beard is cuter. “Well, I had an appointment with Melanie’s cousin, Tyler. He’s a physical therapist.”

“I see. And he made you smell like that, how?”

“He massaged my back. Gave me some oil to take too. Almond, I think.”

I nod knowingly. “Right. The sore back you got from the dance warm-up?”

“I thought I hid that from you pretty well. Now my macho facade is ruined.”

Laughing, I poke him in the stomach. “I think this plastic belt ruins any illusion of machismo, pal. Did he help? Tyler?”

“He did. He’s very good at his job. Never thought I’d feel comfortable getting my body rubbed down by a man with hands the size of my face, but he talked about football while he worked to make me feel better. He was like a straight-man whisperer, keeping me calm. How was your girls’ night?”

“It was great,” I say, helping him drape the extra baubles on the tree. None of them are the same color as the ones on the other side, but what the hell. I like the chaos. “Mel brought the tree.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How did that go?”

“Really well.” I pass him an ornament and gesture at the top branches. “She’s nice. If I sound surprised, it’s because I am. It’s almost enough to make me think Nathan might not be totally evil.”

“Whoa, don’t get carried away with the Christmas spirit there.”

We joke and laugh as we work, and I provide him with beer—I don’t have any Scotch in the house, but he seems happy enough. By the time we stand back and survey our handiwork, a few of the stubby bottles have disappeared, as has the rest of my wine.

“It looks like shit, but I like it,” he says, head tilted to one side. He’s unbuttoned his Santa suit, revealing a tight white T-shirt underneath. Our eyes meet, and I feel that tug yet again. The need to touch him, the need to feel his body against mine. This is a perfect example of why he’s dangerous. Of why I should stay away from him.

The moment builds, and he knows exactly what he’s doing to me when he reaches out and gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. On the surface, it’s a harmless gesture, but any contact at all is enough to unravel me.

“Elijah, don’t,” I murmur, trying to back away, but I come up against the bristling boughs of the Christmas tree. He freezes, but he’s still only inches away.

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