Page 67 of Meet Me on Christmas Eve

“Careful, Mari. You’re getting sentimental on me,” she said in a teasing tone.

I huffed in mock outrage. “No, never!” I sighed again and paused. “I don’t want to give up on Terry, but … he’s answered one message. One out of … dozens? I don’t know. And do you know what he said? ‘I can’t do this with you.’ I mean, he’s being pretty clear. It was a waste of time for us to plan all the stuff for me to say to him when he doesn’t want to hear any of it.”

She was silent for just a moment. “No … he’s notreadyto hear it.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” I said doubtfully, “I can’t fix that.”

“Oh, but you can!”

“How?”

“Come on, Mari. Haven’t you ever heard of a grand gesture? You know, like Kate Beckinsale running across New York to stop John Cusack's wedding, or even Kate Hudson—”

I snickered. “That’s for the movies. And for … romantic people. Not me, not real life.”

She went quiet for a long moment. “What other option do you have, Mari?” When I was silent, she added, “Maybe more importantly—what do you have to lose?”

A single tear rolled down my cheek as I answered her. “Terry.”

Chapter 21

Iexamined the oak mantle over the hearth. The taller nutcrackers should probably stand together, with the shorter ones on the other side.

After I moved them around, I wrinkled my nose in distaste. No, definitely not. Now it’s all asymmetrical. Better to put the tall ones on the inside, short ones on the outside.

I stood back, examining this new configuration. It was improved, yet—

Ring, ring.

My heart lodged in my throat, and my hand flew to my chest. My legs refused to move for a long moment as I tried to catch my breath.

I’d prepared as best I could. I’d just moved in a few days ago, but the house looked great. Well, at least the main floor did. The upstairs was a disaster, but I wouldn’t be entertaining anyone upstairs.

Ring, ring.

Crap, I need to go answer that. I lunged forward, nearly tripping over the thick rug in front of the fire.

OK, it’s just not going to be possible for me to be low-key and relaxed when I answer the door. I’m going to be panting and sweaty and frazzled.

I tried practicing the positive self-talk I’d been reading about lately.It’s OK, Mariana. Just be yourself. That’s all he wants.

Finally, I took a deep breath and opened the door. He’d been looking to the side, but upon hearing the door, he swung his head in my direction.

Even through the whipping wind outside, I heard his sharp intake of breath. “You.”

I tried to smile as brightly as I could. “Me.”

Then I watched him turn around and start to walk down the stairs of my front porch. “Wait, don’t go! Please.”

He ignored me though, and I stood there trying to decide what to do. Grab my boots and follow him? Beg? But as I deliberated, I noticed he wasn’t going to the driver’s side door. He was heading around the back, opening the door, and … getting the tree out!

He’s not leaving! He’s just … not too talkative. A little grumpy. OK, I can work with that.

As he approached, I smiled again, though his eyes were on the ground in front of him. “Thank you so much. Could you—”

He leaned the tree against the corner of the porch and then turned as though to leave.

“Wait,” I pleaded, putting a hand on his arm as he passed on his way to the stairs. “Terry, please.”

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