Page 37 of Love Letters to Christmas

Problem is, Amelia doesn’t have cooties, and the way she reacted to my parents being, well,themwas…cute.

Yes, cute.

Adorable, really.

Her eyes got massive and pleading and confused, and the way she looked at me, constantly, searching and begging for help, did something to the primitive, masculine, protector part of my brain.

Everything she does is a fusion of pretty and cute.

She’s elegantly clumsy, as though her body knows the perfect time to misplace her footing so her skirt might swayjust sowhen she catches herself.

In no uncertain terms, she is precious.

Desperately precious.

Cheek resting in my palm, I stare at the closest thing to a love letter Amelia has ever given me. Pinched between my fingers,a perfect frosted letter cookie sits. The white icing with a pink heart seal taunts me.

I must woo her.

But how does one woo a woman?

All throughout my life, nearly every girl I’ve come across has fallen over themselves for me. Amelia hasn’t. Or, rather, Amelia just falls over herself in front of anyone. It’s a side effect, I think, of her upbringing.

Amelia is insecure and cautious and embarrassed easily in front of everyone. She blushes at the drop of a hat. Once, she apologized toFrankof all people. Frank is too tired ninety percent of the time to realize when she’s been slighted, and all Amelia did washer job.

That is to say, she delivered a letter from Norm.

And Frank unleashed the deity of all sighs, before—somewhat merrily—opening the envelope.

Despite this, Amelia stammered out an apology while her face turned red.

If Amelia likes me, I won’t be able to tell unless she tells me outright.

I snap a corner of the cookie off with my teeth and chew, delighting in the buttery flavors.

She’s such wife material.

Makes me want to keep her at home, playing with wax and baking. The old nine-to-five doesn’t suit her fragile disposition. If I wouldn’t miss her here, I’d be terribly inclined to suggest she take up full-time housekeeping. Not to mention that she’s begun to turn heads. Nearly every single guy in the office watches her a bit more closely than I’m just now coming to realize I’m comfortable with.

I snap off another bite.

Honestly. How dare?

Just because she’s perfect and demure does not mean anyothersingles should be fixating on the sway of her dress or the way she pushes the strands of hair she leaves out of her bun to frame her face over her ear. The curling rivulets that fall against her cheeks have an owner, and that owner is me.

My lip juts.

Yup. Decidedly, there’s just oneSinglefor her.

Wooing a woman would besomuch easier during a holiday. Butnoo. Brian isn’t allowed to haveanotherholiday untilmaybeChristmas.

It would alreadybeChristmas right now if it weren’t for Halloween holding back the floodgates of my cheer.

Just think of all the mistletoe I could plant down here. Mail and white berries, and pretty Amelia caught beneath the sprigs, face crimson, eyes wide, lips trembling as I lean in…

I snap another bite, close my eyes, and sigh.

Cutting a look at my office calendar, I beholdJune 17th. I’m not even halfway to Christmas, in both a literal and metaphorical sense. I’d write her a love letter if I hadn’t gone on and on concerning how my gratitude letter wasn’t meant to make her uncomfortable.

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