Page 17 of The Bright Side of Christmas
Without my mind’s permission, my eyes pop up, looking at the window across the way. He’s entering the room, wearing a well-fitting short-sleeved shirt that, even from this angle, I can tell hugs his biceps perfectly.
Nope, no Wren. We don’t care about his arms, remember?He’s bossy and rude and hates Christmas.
Unfortunately, I’ve always been a sucker for good arms.
His eyes are locked on me across the way.
Instantly, I put my head down and continue with my sewing, pushing fabric through the machine and trying to concentrate. Eventually, I crack and then glance up. He’s sitting at the desk, head down, but he must notice I’m looking once more, because his head pops up as well. Then he reaches over, grabbing for a paper and pressing it to the window.
Go to bed.
I shrug, then shake my head before looking down at my project again. Ten minutes later, my curiosity wins once more, and I look up. This time, his head is no longer tipped down;instead, he’s sitting, gaze locked across the way with his arms crossed on his chest. When he sees me looking at him, he reaches over once more, pressing the note to the window again.
Go to bed.
Underneath, he’s added another word in his thick, no-nonsense handwriting.
Now.
I check the time, seeing twelve thirty on the clock.
I can’t let him win, even if my eyes are starting to lose focus and my work isn't as neat as it used to be.
I shake my head, and he glares at me, then pulls the paper down, scribbling on it.
Add lights to the wreath.
I read it once, then rub my eyes before reading it again. Lights to the wreath? I tip my head to the side, exhausted and not fully understanding, and he looks like he’s about to sigh before letting the sign drop and writing another.
If you go to bed,this one reads.
He’sbribingme.
And unfortunately, I’m totally about to fall for it. I don’t want to give too much away, I shrug, then grab a piece of paper of my own.
Lights on your porch?
A long moment passes as he reads it, his face clearly displeased, before he writes something and presses the paper to the window.
Don’t push it.
I fight a smile, knowing it was probably a lost cause but not wanting to seemtooeager about his offer. Lights on the wreath would mean that, at the very least, the entire street has lights.
A huge win, I think, as I write down my response.
I was going to bed anyway.
Even from across the way, I can see his eyes roll, which is why, when I clean up and turn the lights off, I’m grinning. It stays on my face as I clean up and get ready for bed, and when I finally do, it’s still playing on my lips.
EIGHT
“You need a break,” Hallie says on Friday afternoon as she helps me bake cookies for the bake sale. At the staff meeting on Tuesday, Stephanie asked if anyone was willing to bring in some treats to sell while the PTO puts on their annual holiday shop for the kids, and the room was absolutely silent. I know those funds help the graduating fifth graders have a party at the end of the year. If no one signed up, it wouldn’t happen, so I volunteered.
When I did, a relieved sigh went through the room, which I usually assume was because everyone was glad the fundraiser would still happen. Now, I have a little voice in my head that sounds far too much like my neighbor.
What if everyone was just relieved I pitched in so they wouldn’t have to step up themselves?
Like I’ve done every time since that voice started speaking, I shake my head, knocking it free, and move on, continuing to scoop dough onto a cookie sheet and appeasing my friend. Hallie isn’t wrong: Idoneed a break, but I also know one is coming soon. I just need to get through the next few weeks.
