Page 83 of Love Letters to Christmas

Pink fills her cheeks, and her lips part. “I want to love you like this.”

My head tilts. “Like this?”

“Selflessly.”

“Oh, Mail-ia. You already do. This would be a non-issue if you didn’t. I don’t know how to get you to understand that.” I jut my lip. “I’ll keep trying, though. Probably come up with a few schemes for it…”

A frail smile touches her mouth, then realization steals it. Lifting her attention, she looks at the neglected tray on her bed. “I’ve let the breakfast you made for me go cold.”

Rising, I offer her my hand. “And that’s why some guy invented the microwave.”

Angelic, Amelia slips her fingers into mine. She rises, and her nightgown splays. Pale green against flushed skin. Mercy, she’s pretty.

“You deserve kindness,” I say.

Her fingers flinch in my hand. “Is the affirmation bombardment starting already?”

“Yep. Consider it the beginning of your cognitive behavioral therapy. We’ll ease you toward seeing a professional who can do it correctly, lest I launch you fully to the other side of the spectrum whereby you consider yourself to be as perfectly flawless as I consider you. Just imagine how insufferable we could be, though. Thinking so highly of ourselves and oneanother.” I click my tongue. “Could be fun. Maybe we should.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Perhaps I’ll spend my afternoon scribing an essay for you on why it’s a very good idea. You’ll receive it in a few business days.” Before I can continue, my phone begins to ring, so I reluctantly release Amelia’s hand and pull it out of my pocket to look at the caller ID. “Liam?”

Well, that’s surely not a great sign.

I answer, “Hiya, boss. How’s Europe treating you?”

“Why is the office decorated for Christmas, Brian?”

I clear my throat. “Is…it?”

“I am staring at a snowman taller than me in the lobby right this second.”

He’s back already?

Well.

That’s…

Not good.

Turning my back on Amelia, I comb my fingers through my hair. “Anadorablesnowman, perchance?”

“I expect to see you in my office in thirty minutes.”

I glance back at Amelia, who still hasn’t had her breakfast or the chance to get dressed. “Thirty minutes is cutting it a bit tight, don’t ya think? It takes that long just to make it to the penthouse office in our elevator.”

“You have one hour, or you’re fired.”

My heart plummets, but before I can open my mouth, he’s hung up.

“Is…everything okay?” Amelia asks, nerves tight in her voice.

I blow out a breath and look at my phone, at a picture of my boss hugging a stuffed animal I technically got for his wife during our Countdown to Valentine’s Day event, which he loved. A lot.

Ah.

I see.

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