Page 50 of The Bright Side of Christmas
When I see it, I can’t hold off either, filling the condom as I come with her.
Wren collapses against my chest, and long, long moments pass as we both catch our breath before she lifts her head, grinning down at me.
“I think I’m seeing the value in asking for what I want now.”
I burst into laughter.
EIGHTEEN
Wren insists we make a fire in my fireplace, which I do, though when she tries to go next door to get firewood and s’mores materials from her house, I put my foot down. Instead, she stays warm and dry in my place, wearing one of my flannel shirts that is way too big on her and her panties, while I get dressed and go over to her place to get what she needs.
I’m cleaning up after making grilled cheese sandwiches, and Wren is sitting on the kitchen counter once more, chatting away, when suddenly, something comes to me.
A spark that I haven’t felt in what feels like forever. The tiniest twinge, a chord progression that probably won’t last longer than ten seconds, but it’s…something.
I reach for my phone to jot it in my notes, hoping I don’t lose it. Then, I look at the woman in my arms and decide I need paper, a pen, and possibly my piano. As it sits on my mind, more gets added, a few lyrics begin to swirl, and I feel that tight excitement in my chest that I haven’t felt in far too long.
Here with Wren, I’m finally inspired, and I don’t want to ignore it. Instead of the typical dread at the idea of writing, I feel electric, excited. I want to go to my officenow.
But I want to do it with her by my side.
It would require showing herme, and even though I’ve enjoyed being Adam Porter, her apparently mysterious, grumpy neighbor, if this is going to be something, I can’t hide forever.
Even more so, I don’twantto hide from Wren.
“I want to show you something,” I say, drying off my hands and then moving over to her, putting my hands on her waist, lifting her, and setting her on her feet.
“Show me something? What kind of something?”
I stare at her and feel those nervous butterflies in my chest before I push them aside. “Who I am. What I do.”
She grins at me again, a teasing look going into her words. “Is it your serial killer room?”
“My serial killer room?”
“I told you, Hallie and I have a list of potential past lives for you. She was very stuck on a serial killer for a while.”
I shake my head and laugh, but grab her hand, moving her through the house. “And you came home with me anyway?”
“I didn’t say I thought you were a serial killer. Plus, I don’t think I had much choice in the whole coming home with you thing. You kind of dragged me in here.”
“I did not drag you here,” I grumble, but can’t seem to fight the slow smirk that accompanies it.
“Sure you didn’t, baby,” she says, reaching up and patting my cheek. “But we’ve moved past serial killer.”
We hit the stairs, and I start pulling her up them, any hesitancy gone and excitement filling my veins. The small melody is still there, looping in my mind and continuing, adding a note or two every round.
Between the goodness of inspiration and knowing I’m about to show Wren everything, I’m fighting the urge to take two steps at a time.
“No? What were your thoughts?”
“Witness protection.” I pause and turn to look down the stairs at her, and she’s beaming at me. I let out a laugh. “It would explain why you stayed home and were all boring!” I shake my head, then finish moving up the stairs. “But my favorite theory is your dad is Santa, and you’re hiding out here to avoid the family business. It would explain why you hate Christmas.”
I turn down the hall, and the door to my office comes into view. Nerves tighten my chest, but I push them aside.
“Not quite. But I guess you can say that I’m in hiding.”
She lifts an eyebrow, and I reach the door, my hand touching the knob and twisting. My heart is pounding with anticipation, trying to account for every possible outcome and prepare mentally for it, but I know it’s no use.
