Page 24 of Her Christmas Fix
I can hear the shower running down the hall, and my mind drifts to this morning when a few of the guys from the diner showed up to help lay the hardwood. Mason Pierce had offered to send one of his crews, but I declined. The space felt too personal to bring in people who didn’t already know about Monika staying here.
They arrived ready to work and understood the value of keeping their mouths shut and showing up when it mattered. Even Noah made an appearance, which surprised me. The grumpy bastard rarely leaves his kitchen during business hours, but claimed he wasn’t going to let me screw it up by rushing the installation. Coming from Noah, that’s practically a declaration of friendship.
What really struck me was watching each of them interact with Monika. She showed up at the house with coffee and pastries she’d somehow managed to procure without meknowing, her hair already pulled back in that messy bun I’ve come to love, wearing jeans that had more paint stains than an old drop cloth and a faded T-shirt.
As usual, she didn’t like a celebrity gracing them with her presence. She jumped right in, asking questions, learning names, laughing at their terrible jokes. When Noah made some crack about her being too pretty to know which end of a hammer to use, she’d grabbed a nail gun and proceeded to demonstrate her skills with enough competence that he’d actually cracked a smile.
“You’re alright, Graham,” he’d told her. In Noah speak, that was as good as a marriage proposal.
He even invited her to the Christmas breakfast at The Salty Dog. The annual event was a big deal in Wild Rose Point, a tradition where anyone without family or a place to go could show up for a hot meal and community. Being invited meant you were considered one of us.
Monika had looked genuinely touched, her eyes getting that shine they get when she’s trying not to cry. “I’d love that,” she said, and I could tell she meant it.
That’s when it hit me, standing in the renovated living room of her grandmother’s house, watching her joke with a bunch of rough-around-the-edges veterans who’d accepted her into their fold.
She fits in my world. More than that, she fits with me in a way that feels both terrifying and absolutely right.
I’m in love with her.
The realization should come with more fanfare, or at least make me panic. But instead, it settles over me like that flannel shirt she keeps stealing—a perfect fit even though, at face value, it should be all wrong.
Unfortunately, the timing is shit. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Her furniture gets delivered in the morning, and she’ssupposed to head back to LA the day after Christmas. Back to her real life, with movie sets and agents and a world that has nothing to do with me.
I need to tell her how I feel and make a case for this becoming more than a temporary arrangement. The thought makes my palms sweat more than any combat zone ever did, but I can’t let her leave without shooting my shot.
The shower cuts off, and I force myself to focus on the tacos instead of the image of Monika naked and wet just down the hall. I’m stirring the meat when I hear her footsteps, and when I turn around, every coherent thought evaporates from my brain.
She’s wearing black leggings and that red flannel she’s adopted as her own. As always, it looks better than any designer outfit on the red carpet. She’s rolled the sleeves up past her elbows, and the hem hits her mid-thigh. Her damp hair falls loose around her shoulders, and she smells like my soap and her shampoo.
The shirt is completely ruined for me. I’ll never be able to wear it again without thinking of her. I imagine a pathetic future me burying my nose in it just to catch a trace of her scent.
“Smells good,” she says, moving toward me with her sweet smile.
I reach out and pull her against me, one hand sliding into her hair. “Dinner can wait a few minutes.”
She laughs against my mouth as I kiss her, her hands fisting in the front of my shirt. I’m deepening the kiss and considering whether we can make it to the bedroom before I lose what’s left of my self-control, when someone knocks on the door.
“Ignore it,” I murmur against her lips. The words I really want to say crowd my throat. I love her, and I want her to be a part of my world. I want to be a part of hers if she’ll let me.
She pulls back slightly, eyes dancing with amusement. “I have a few more things coming for the house.”
I groan but release her. “Fine. But this isn’t over.”
Nothing about us is over, not if I have anything to say about it. Tomorrow. I’ll tell her everything tomorrow.
She heads for the door while I turn off the burner. I’m already thinking about how fast I can get rid of whoever this is when I hear her gasp.
The strangely panicked sound makes my blood run cold.
I spin around just as camera flashes start going off through the open doorway. Almost immediately, there’s a stream of rapid-fire questions.
“How do you feel about Daniel Peters’ arrest?”
“Were you aware of the embezzlement?”
“Is it true you’ve been hiding out here?”
“Who’s the guy? New boyfriend?”
