Page 48 of Love Letters to Christmas

How painfully romantic.

I don’t know whether to be overjoyed or heartbroken.

On the one hand, he’s giving me a chance! On the other…he has no feelings at all that would bar him from corresponding with a secret admirer, meaning that my living with him for the past two months hasn’t resulted in anything akin to romantic interest.

On the one hand, this is an opportunity for him to get to know me andmaybefall in love with who I am.

On the other, he might notice the similarities between me and me, which will lead to disaster.

Should I alter my answers in an effort to fit his preferences…? Am I reallythatdesperate?

Possibly. Potentially. Absolutely and completely.

Unfortunately, his preferences?Are mail.

Mail does not eat muffins or have a favorite color. Mail does not go on dates at restaurants.

I cannot be mail.

But Icanlet myself have an evening to ponder how I’ll reply since mail won’t run tomorrow anyway. I can allow myself to breathe. I can remind myself that I’m healing and growing, and Brian is so wonderful he’s invested in my journey. I can set my letter in my glove box, drive home, and get dinner ready for him.

I can sort through my emotions and react both rationally and responsibly.

I can…

“Oh, hey, A-mail-ia,” Brian greets me—topless, hair damp—as I come through the front door, and my brain launches back a few weeks, to the first time I saw him basically naked, moments before we shared a room for the entire night.

Emotionally, thinking aboutthatnight is not a safe space for me since it results in my heart attempting to vacate my body and all. Nevertheless, here I am. Doing dangerous things.

He asks, “Where have you been?” If his chest weren’t already blinding me, his smile would. “Not shopping, I hope. Or outside, all alone, in this big city full of treacherousness.” His smile fades, and he pins me with a look that pierces me through my soul. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”

My heart gives up on escape in order that it might explode. “I— Uh.” I try to remember how to breathe. “I’m okay.” My fingers shake as I push a strand of hair over my ear. “I’m grown.” Bare chest. Bare, bare chest. Concerned brows, resting low. Beautiful green eyes, fixed on me. Above bare chest. Very bare, very toned, very perfect chest. Hardly whispering, I say, “I need to be able to go outside alone.”

He approaches.

He. Approaches. Half. Naked.

His hand reaches for me, and he curls a finger beneath my chin. The air stills. My already struggling breath catches. Time slows down.

Then he smiles and flicks. “No, you don’t. Why would you need to? Give me one example.”

When I need to go get a letter from you from my secret PO box. I avert my gaze, glance around the living room and kitchen, search for an answer that does not present itself. “W-well…”

“Well?” he prompts, leaning ever closer, bare skin and beauty, righttherein front of me.

Amelia.exe shuts down.

Chuckling, Brian steps back, giving me a few spare inches of space. “Next time ask me to go with you.”

I cannot do that, sir. I simply cannot. This is one of those times where I must put my shoulders back and exercise being a strong, independent, adult woman, who no longer seeks validation or approval from authority figures, because Brianisn’tan authority figure. This might be his house, but I am free to leave, and not being allowed to go out on my own should not be a rule.

Even though he’s only worried about me.

And wants what’s best for me.

And didn’t know where I was.

And…

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