Page 93 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
“Not the same as a rink, huh?”
“Definitely wetter,” I say, and he shoves my shoulder playfully.
We walk for what feels like forever, talking about nothing and everything. College. His family. How he used to come here as a kid. Every word feels easy, like the day itself is conspiring to keep us happy.
At one point, we stop near a line of dunes and spread out a blanket his mom packed. Eli collapses onto it, squinting up at the sky. “This is it,” he says. “Perfect day achieved.”
I drop down beside him, leaning back on my elbows. “You sure? We haven’t even done the tourist stuff yet.”
“Oh, we will,” he promises. “Boardwalk, ice cream, maybe even one of those terrible souvenir photos where they green-screen us onto a dolphin.”
I groan. “You’re not serious.”
“Completely serious.” He rolls onto his side, eyes glinting. “You’ll frame it, too.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Fine. Then I’ll frame it.”
He reaches out, brushes sand from my arm, and the touch turns the whole world quiet for a second. It hits me then—how easy it is to love him, how impossible it is not to.
We spend the rest of the afternoon chasing waves, eating fried shrimp from a paper basket, and sharing a melting cone that drips down his fingers. He licks the chocolate off, catches me watching, and laughs like he’s already caught me doing something scandalous.
When the sun starts to sink, painting everything gold and pink, Eli leans his head on my shoulder. “See?” he says softly. “Told you I’d ruin you for anything else.”
He’s right. The world could end right here, and I’d still think this was the best day of my life.
THIRTY-FIVE
ELI
Christmas Eve morningfeels like it’s wrapped in its own kind of magic. The house smells like cinnamon rolls and coffee, and somewhere down the hall, I can hear my mom humming along to carols on the radio. But the real reason my chest feels so full is the man half-asleep beside me.
It’s been a week ofthis—kisses that taste like cocoa, lazy mornings tangled up in each other, touches that still make my heart race. Every time he smiles, it feels like the whole world softens.
Max stretches, blinking awake, and his voice comes out low and rough. “Why are you smiling like that?”
I prop myself up on one elbow, trying to hide the box behind me. “No reason. Maybe because it’s Christmas Eve and I have the best present for you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You already saidyouwere my present.”
“Yeah, but this one’s wearable,” I say, pushing the box toward him.
He sits up, the blanket slipping low on his waist, and starts peeling back the wrapping paper. When he lifts the sweaterout, his face goes through three stages—confusion, disbelief, and then this slow, incredulous amusement.
“You got me a panda.”
“Not just any panda,” I say, grinning. “A panda holding cookies. It was between that and a Grinch sweater, but I figured this one suited you better.”
He looks at me, fighting a smile. “Because?”
“Because you’re all tough on the outside, but inside…” I reach out and tap the middle of his chest. “…you’re basically a giant soft bear with a hidden sweet tooth.”
He laughs—quiet, genuine—and shakes his head. “You’re never letting that ‘Grinch heart grew three sizes’ thing go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
Max holds the sweater up, studying it like it might growl at him. “You realize I have to wear this in front of your entire family tonight?”
