Page 64 of Love Letters to Christmas

She’s willing to participate in my antics without question—like how she happily adapted to wearing Liam’s Santa costume instead of the elf one even though a fake beard seems arguably more embarrassing—but she doesn’t spearhead them.

She is absolutely wife material. She should not bemywife material.

And…yet…

Eyes remaining fixed on her desk, I settle my chin in my hands. “My wife, Amelia Christmas.” Everything about that makes me happy. Everything about the idea of taking care of her makes me happy, even though I know she’s going to respond to it as though I’m torturing her.

That part does not necessarily make meunhappy, either.

I think… I think I might be a bit of a bully.

I am looking forward to these next few weeks more than is entirely reassuring.

At least, with any luck, by the end of them Amelia will understand I’m not some paragon…and maybe, just maybe, she’ll still like me anyway.

Standing, I release a breath and see myself out of my office and to my Amelia’s desk. I let my fingers graze the back of her seat, then I place my hand at my heart and present the empty chair. “Oh? Yes. This ismy wife, Amelia Christmas. I call her A-mail-ia. Though, if you do that, I’ll stab you with a letter opener.” My lips quirk. “Hm? What’s that? You needmy wife? She’s not here right now, but I can take a message and let you know if I think it’s worthy of her precious time.” I pull out her chair and bow. “After you, my wife.”

Heh.

Yeah, that’s the good stuff.

Pushing her chair back in with my hip, I tuck my hands in my pockets and start toward the elevator, so I can head home to my wife, Amelia Christmas.

Chapter Twenty-three

Help.

Amelia

This is torture. Absolute torture.

Worse, I think Brian’s enjoying it.

Heart panicking, I cut my attention off Brian’s bright smile and toward my desk, just to make sure I put the letter I wrote for him last night away. Thankfully, I did.

But air doesn’t return to me as I find myself still in bed, still in my jammies, still looking at a tray of food.

Whimpering beneath the covers, I tug my blanket up to my nose. “What…is this?”

“Breakfast in bed!” Brian cheers, disregarding the fact he has waltzed into a female’s bedroom and woken said female from a deep slumber.

Does he not think of me as a woman?

Wasn’t it literally last night that I was thinking how he’d not been in my room since he helped me bring my boxes in?

Talk about dreadful foreshadowing.

Every muscle in my body knots as I look at what exactlybreakfastconsists of. Scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, and…a blueberry muffin.

He knows.

He knows.

My life is over.

Unless…unless this means he might be interested inme? If he’s replying andknowsand doesn’t think I’m messing withhim, doesn’t this mean I have a chance? Is that too good to be true?

I whisper, “Blueberry?”

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