Page 56 of Love Letters to Christmas

He lifts a bundle of grocery bags in his hands. “I just got back.” Sly, a smile curls his lips. “Were you too…engrossedto hear me come in?”

I was. I very, very much was. Butwhat do you expect? When he posts a picture of himself posing in a puddle of the hundreds of red envelopes we collected yesterday…it’s only natural that all my senses would turn off. He is every woman’s scarlet letter, and seeing him unabashedly surrounded by them is not humane.

Making the matter about seventeen billion trillion times worse, he was holdingmyletter to Santa—white-and-red wax seal decorated in tiny polymer clay Christmas trees—to…his…lips. The sultry smile he fixed on the camera felt personal. Asthough he meant to stare directly into my soul.

So,yes, I was toopreoccupiedto hear he’d come home.

Stable as a baby deer, I try to peel myself off the floor as I find an excuse for my behavior. “I-I can’t believe you highlighted my letter.”

“I can’t believe it took me this many years to finally con one out of you.”

I slip back to the floor as he turns for the kitchen and unloads. “What?” I ask.

“Were my parents too subtle when they told you how much I love your work?”

I don’t think they were, actually. I…must be an idiot.

“Finally, I have my very own Amelia Original.”

“I can make you as many as you’d like. I love to play around and try new things.”

Brian tuts as he begins unpacking the groceries. “That’s not how it works. Without a letter attached, seals are just pretty scraps of wax. The mail is what gives themfeelings. Depth. Wonder.Purpose.” His brows wiggle. “Now, you’re more than welcome to write me as many letters as you’d like to go with the seals.”

I gulp. What would I even say to him asmyself? I couldn’t even bring myself to write a response of gratitude to the letter he gave me with my bonus or to the one he gave me at the ren faire. I’m much too worried I’d ramble like a lunatic. Or, worse, confess how I’ve always felt about him. No, a casual letter to Brian won’t do at all. Even if I really, really,reallyshould put together a thank-you letter for allowing me to live here.

Which should be a safe topic.

Even though my nerves refuse to believe it is.

It’s actually despicable that I haven’t gotten over myself enough to just write one.

I’m the worst.

And I’m sitting on the floor while Brian unloads the groceries, which makes me the double worst.

Finding a deep breath and my legs, I rise. “Let me take care of that, and I’ll get dinner started.”

“Nope,” Brian says, stealing a milk carton before I can reach it. “I’m making dinner tonight.”

He’s…making dinner?

Ifhe’smaking dinner, what am I supposed to do?

“Relax,” he says, as though he’s heard my unspoken question, as thoughrelaxingis something I’m capable of. “Start up a movie. Make sure your phone survived being thrown across the room.”

It should have. Ever since my first phone’s screen protector shattered on the sidewalk outside the Verizon store, I have invested in the practical lockbox cases. Needless to say, my phone’s prepped to handle my unique disposition.

My unique disposition is ill-equipped to handle being told to sit down and watch a movie while someone who already does so much for me makes me dinner.

“Can’t I help you?” I ask.

“Nope.”

I do not know what to do with my hands. “What…movie do you want to watch?”

“You decide.”

I hate this.

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