Page 45 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

It takes me a second to catch up to the change in topic. “You won’t be by yourself,” I say, looking over at her. “I’ll be here.”

“You don’t even have a Christmas tree up,” she points out, glancing around the room. Then she turns to me, her eyes lighting up. “Can we decorate for Christmas?”

And because I’m a sucker, because I’m weak, I answer her immediately. “I guess,” I say. “We can try, anyway. This is my first Christmas here, so I’m not sure what sort of decorations we’ll be able to find on the island, but…”

“But we can look?” she says, smiling brightly.

I hold back my sigh. I know I’m going to regret making this promise when I’m hunting down a Christmas tree or garland or whatever else she wants. And yet, I say it anyway. “Yeah,” I tell her. “We can look. We’ll do what we can. Okay?”

Her eyes go squinty with the smile she gives me, and I try to push aside the warmth that hovers in my chest like fog over a city—a hazy glow that has me smiling softly back at her.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” I murmur as her eyes drift closed.

Her lids flutter slightly. “But I’m not tired,” she says, yawning around the words.

“Come on. Sleep,” I say again.

I can see the exact moment she decides she’s too tired to argue; the last remaining bit of posture leaves her body, and she sinks completely into the couch cushions. “Mm-hmm,” she hums.

“Good girl,” I say softly, standing up. I tug gently on her feet. “Stretch out.”

She complies, her eyes still closed, unfurling her body like the petals of a flower and rolling onto her side. She’s cramped, but it has to be more comfortable than sleeping in the position she was in before.

And then I watch as she drifts off to sleep before my eyes. And I’m left wondering, like an idiot, what she’s seeing in her dreams—and if she’s dreaming about me like I dreamed about her.

What a bizarre alternate reality we seem to have entered; Molly O’Malley is sleeping on my couch, wearing my clothes, and I just called hersweetheart.I didn’t mean to. It sort of just…happened. And I can’t tear my eyes away from her. I can’t stop thinking about that ridiculous yellow boxfish tattooed above her hip. And now I’m also thinking about how to decorate for Christmas, despite the fact that decorating is the last thing I want to spend my time doing.

What is this woman doing to me?

Fourteen

Molly

Ever wornBand-Aids over your nipples because you didn’t have a bra handy?

1/10, would not recommend. I need underwire, and I need itnow.

Which is why the first stop on our shopping trip is not at the grocery store but instead at an overpriced tourist boutique that sells wardrobes full of clothing with the name of the island scrawled across the front. My breasts are now encased in a too-small bra that advertises the Virgin Islands—the humor of which is not lost on me—but at least it’s better than nothing, andcertainlybetter than Band-Aids. I also walk away with three t-shirts, a pair of shorts, and a flowing maxi dress, all of which cost more money than anyone should reasonably have to spend on six items of clothing. But it feels better to be in my own clothes and out of Beckett’s, no matter how good they smelled.

Of course, Beckett is the one who paid for these new clothes, since I didn’t bring my wallet when we left the cruise ship. His cash was ruined in the storm, but his card made it unscathed. Small mercies.

It’s the maxi dress I’ve got on now, because it seemed like the best-fitting thing we bought. The fabric is soft and flowy, a rich emerald green, printed with a tropical floral pattern. It has simple straps, leaving my shoulders mostly bare. The belted torso does surprisingly good things for my figure, and on the whole I feel pretty good—especially when I step out of the dressing room and see Beckett’s unfiltered reaction. It’s subtle, but it sends a thrill through me nonetheless—the tightening of his jaw, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the journey of his eyes down my figure. It’s a moment that distracts me from the gravity of our current situation and pulls me instead to a make-believe reality where he looks at me like this all the time.

Exactly how far away is that reality? Because I’m starting to wonder.

I think…I think he might have called mesweetheartearlier. But also I might have been dreaming? I was half-asleep, and I’m kicking myself that I can’t remember.

After I discreetly fan my face with both hands, we leave the tourist boutique, and I remind Beckett of his promise.

“You said we could decorate for Christmas,” I say, rubbing my hands together as I look around the square. The rain has finally stopped, and we’re back where we met Señorita and Alfonso, who I plan to visit in a moment. The array of different shops is dizzying. There are several restaurants, clothing places, jewelry stores, and like five souvenir shops. That’s four too many, in my opinion, but whatever.

“I did,” Beckett says grudgingly, “but I think it’s going to be slim pickings. You know that, right?” He looks much better now that he’s showered and changed, too. But he has his hands shoved in his pockets, and he looks for all the world like we’re discussing an upcoming root canal rather than Christmas decorations—yet he’s still willing to humor me.

Two days. Hold your feelings in for two days,I remind myself.Focus less on the attractive, grumpy, secretly sweet man and more on keeping yourself healthy.

“It did occur to me,” I admit, my eyes falling to our shadows on the paved stone beneath our feet. “But I thought maybe we could…I don’t know. Improvise.” My shadow shrugs its shoulders.

“We can,” he says, and his shadow nods slowly. “Just as long as you’re aware this probably won’t be a traditional Christmas.”

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