Page 78 of Love Letters to Christmas

Smirking beneath my mask, I say, “For those in the crowd who can’t get a good look, William Ivan Delimar Vann is sitting upon the platform of a lit dunk tank with a dark background. The poor man just couldnotbe convinced to work. Alas. Alack.”

Ruby’s slow-rising smile catches in the corner of my eye.

“Please enjoy your reward and the amenities provided at this, our Christmas in July party. Our absent boss and I would like to thank you for participating in the fun this month and extend a warm expression of gratitude. We, deeply, appreciate each and every one of you and what you do for the Whirlwind Branding team. Merry Christmas.” I turn my mic off and resume the music’s volume as many from the finance floor charge through the crowd to reach their boss outside.

Amelia, beside me, says, “I thought the prizes would have something to do with the letters to Santa we collected.”

I laugh. “Oh, absolutely not. That was for mail’s sake. I have about negative faith that people were reasonable with their requests, and, anyway, I’m not Santa. All the letters, except yours, will be going straight to Liam once he gets back.”

“E-except for mine?” Amelia whispers.

“I’m keeping yours. I’ll be your Santa and fulfill whatever requests it contains. It’s a small price to pay in order for the right to keep your seal.”

“You mean…you haven’t opened it yet?”

“Nope. I’ve savored it, waiting for Christmas Day.”

“What if I asked for a million dollars?” she says.

I hum. “Then I suppose I’ll have to ask Liam for a raise.” Distantly, beyond the glass, where the sun hangs low in the July sky, Will’s yell as he plunges into the dunk tank weasels its way into the symphony of Christmas music around us. My brows rise. “Did…Ruby just punch the target?”

“I suppose she couldn’t exactly aim?”

“I specifically rented the tank with the brightest lit target and set up a black tarp behind everything in hope she might be able to.”

Amelia steps a fraction closer to me. “I suppose she wasn’t a fan of the odds.”

“And here I thought she enjoyed statistics.” I look down at Amelia’s silken hair, still tightly wound in a bun at the base of her neck. Everything in me wants to free it so it can cascade around her shoulders and kiss the shades of her gown, but I wouldn’t know the first thing about which pins to pull.

As though feeling the weight of my gaze, Amelia straightens, looks up, and locks eyes with me. Heat warms her cheeks beneath the Christmas collection of shades she’s used to decorate her mask.

“This,” I say, touching a fingertip to the gold-colored design of a white baby’s breath seal, “is stunning. How long did it takeyou to make?”

Her breath catches. “I’ve been working on it since the fifteenth.”

The fifteenth. When she left to not-so-discreetly check her post box.

With a good number of people milling about near the dunk tank outside, heading home, or on the other side of the room by the refreshments, it’s almost private for us over here, by the music. So I search, desperately, for a seal that matches any she’s sent me as my secret admirer, so I might recognize it and coax things along.

I can’t find a single one.

“Do you…” she begins, slipping her hand out of mine to point, “…want to get a picture together?”

Closing my fingers to ward off the chill of abandonment, I glance toward the quiet receptionist’s desk.

She whispers, “We don’t have t—”

“Yes,” I say. “Absolutely.” Forcing myself to wait on her lead, I refrain from taking her hand again. Like a lost puppy, I trail after her toward the racks of props I set up. Perhaps confession is an end-of-night sort of thing? The sun is, after all, still casting rays across the sky, beaming orange shades into the lobby. Confessions must be strictly for beneath the street lamps and Christmas lights.

It hurts to swallow when Amelia puts a reindeer headband on and smiles at me, adorable.

With the way my heart’s pounding, I’m sure my face is crimson beneath this mask, so I’m glad it can’t give me away.

“What are you going to pose with?” she asks while I set up my phone in the stand on the desk and make sure the timer is on.

Removing the last love letter she sent me from my breast pocket, I say, “This.”

Her sharp intake of breath makes my heart skip a beat. I wait.A moment. Another. No confession. Still sunlight. No problem. I can be patient.

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