Page 9 of One-Click Christmas
How else would I know the cold doesn’t just kiss her cheeks, it carves them, leaving behind streaks of red like she’s been marked by winter? That her boots don’t crunch through the snow, they dodge every uneven patch like the ground mightbetray her. That her breath doesn’t fog in the air, it stutters out in fractured clouds like something inside of her is breaking in slow motion.
These aren’t things you learn by accident. You have to watch closely, quietly, long enough for the truth to show itself in the smallest movements, the ones people don’t know they’re making.
I view it as fieldwork. The same way a scientist would study a tiger, or a Michelin star chef would eat every macron in France, or a carpenter would run his hand over the grain before cutting.
Lana is my living draft.
“So, this is it… Main Street, Rugged Mountain.” She nods toward the small downtown district with streetlamps lighting the dusky path, evergreen wreaths hanging over each one. “It’s not much, but it’s home. This time of year it’s extra special, though.”
I don’t respond. I just listen, allowing her the space to feel the moment most authentically, though my silence seems to catch her off guard.
“Yeah,” she swallows hard and points toward the front window of the bakery where a snowman stands center stage holding a cronut, “Rugged Mountain is sort of famous for these window displays at Christmas time. It’s a whole thing. We have a window display contest, and the entire town comes down to vote.” She clears her throat. “Well, most everyone does. Last year, Rugged Mountain Ink won. You should check that place out if you have time. The talent there is incredible. They’ve won all kind of awards.”
“I have an appointment at the end of the week. Told the guy to draw whatever he wanted.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s wild. Aren’t you scared he’ll do something crazy, like a demon with snakes coming out of its eyes or something?”
“Sometimes the best things are the ones you don’t see coming.”
She looks at me for a beat too long, like she’s trying to decide whether I mean the tattoo or something else entirely.
Maybe I do. Today has thrown a load of curveballs that I wasn’t expecting, though most of them circle back to the curvy woman tucked into her puffy jacket next to me.
“You’re the most interesting man I’ve ever met.” Her gaze meets mine with a grin before she diverts it back to the sidewalk again. I love how shy she is, how nervous. “I mean, the way you write is so… real. It feels like I’m living life with your characters.”
I’m flattered but I’ve always considered what I do as some sort of party trick. “I doubt you’d say that if you knew the truth.”
She tilts her head slightly. “What’s the truth?”
“The truth?” I sigh, brows lifted as I exhale. “The truth is I’m good at pretending.”
“You have to be to write so much, right? I mean, that’s your job. To pretend.”
“It is,” I nod, breath fogging in the cool evening air, “but it’s lonely pretending all the time. I write about love and spell out these grand happily-ever-afters, but I can’t remember the last time I felt anything real.”
Her shoulder brushes mine as we walk. “Do you want to feel something real?”
“Some days I think I do, but I know who I am. I don’t do relationships well. I get busy with work and I lose myself in the big picture, then something I thought would work ends up on fire.” My stomach twists as my reality lies naked on the sidewalk for her to interpret. I’m not usually this open with people.It’s uncomfortable.
“I get it.” Her voice is soft as shoppers pass by with big, red bags. “I read all your books and fantasize about falling in love, but I’ll meet a guy, I’ll find a thousand things wrong with him, and I’ll break it off before anything gets too serious. Don’t get me wrong, some of these guys really do suck, but some of them weren’t that bad either. I think I start telling myself it’s safer to leave first.”
I clear my throat as we near the restaurant I chose for dinner then stare toward her, heart tugging something I can’t explain. “I hear that when love is right, your body knows. It can’t be denied because there’s this visceral reaction.”
A lump passes down her throat as she nods. “Is this where we’re eating? I love this place. I come every year on my birthday. The owner’s son just started making moonshine up in the mountains somewhere. Everyone is talking about it.”
“I made a reservation for us between signings earlier today.” I open the door, the scent of homemade bread and Italian seasoning spilling warmth out into the street like a hug. “If you’d rather something else tonight, I can grab my guy and—”
“Your guy?”Her brows knit together as the warm air deepens the red on her cheeks.
“The actor,” I say, holding the door halfway open. “We talked about this back at the bookshop. I said I’d be observing you on a date.”
She blinks and her mouth drops open as though she’s shocked. “Yeah, but I thought you meant you’d be observingus. You and me.”
I pause, realizing the gap between what I said and what she heard. “I’m sorry for the confusion. The goal is to observe you with another man. I need to see your reactions,and his,while watching and taking notes on how things unfold without being in the middle.”
“But how do you absorb the feelings you need without being in the middle? I heard you talk about all the muses you’ve had at the bookstore earlier. Do you do this with a lot of women?”
I pause, the question hanging heavier than she probably meant it to.
