Page 35 of Jingle Bell Flock
“You okay? You sound odd.” There was something in his voice. Concern, maybe. Like he could tell I wasn’t saying everything I wanted to say.
“I’m great,” I said, pushing off the truck. “But I should let you go. I still have a few stops to make.”
“Okay.” Another pause. “See you at seven?” His tone shifted, sounding like maybe he didn’t quite believe me but wasn’t sure if he should push.
The uncertainty in his voice—the way he was clearly trying not to assume anything—made my hands tremble. Tonight, I’d make sure Harrison never had to feel uncertain about us again. About me, or what I wanted.
“See you then, Harry.”
I climbed into my truck, started the engine, and pulled out onto Main Street. The drive back toward my cabin took me past the turn-off to Harrison’s place. My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Stop wasting time, Stella had told me.
I’d already lost seventeen years with Harrison. Seventeen years of moments we could have had, of mornings waking up next to him, of nights falling asleep with his body pressed against mine.
And for what? Fear? Pride? The stubborn inability to admit that some things were worth fighting for, even when they scared the shit out of you?
We’d been together for less than a week. Most people would say it was too soon to know. Too fast to feel this much.
But I’d loved Harrison Prescott since I was sixteen years old. I’d loved him through distance and silence and years of pretending I didn’t. I’d loved him through anger and hurt, and that moment four days ago when he’d welcomed me back into his bed, his body, his life.
I wasn’t falling in love with him.
I’d never stopped.
And suddenly, the idea of playing it safe, of pretending this was casual or new or anything other than what it actually was, felt like the stupidest thing I could do.
I wanted forever with this man.
And I couldn’t wait another minute to tell him, errands be damned.
I drove past the driveway to my cabin and pulled a u-ey, headed back toward Harrison’s house instead, my heart pounding against my ribs. The lights in the kitchen window showed his silhouette moving around inside.
I parked, killed the engine, and sat there for exactly three seconds before I practically shot out of my truck, up the porch steps, and through his front door without bothering to knock.
I dashed through the house, finding him at the stove, a wooden spoon in his hand. He turned toward me, confusion on his face, but I didn’t give him time to ask questions.
I crossed the kitchen in three strides, cupped his face in my hands, and kissed him.
He made a surprised sound against my mouth, but then he was kissing me back, his free hand coming up to grip my shoulder.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Harrison stared at me with wide eyes. “What—what was that for?”
His free palm slid from my shoulder to settle flat against my chest, the heat of it warm through my shirt. I was sure he could feel my heart pounding beneath it.
“I love you,” I said.
His eyes went even wider. “What?”
“I love you.” The words came more easily the second time. “I’m in love with you. I have been since we were kids, and I never stopped, and I don’t want to waste any more time pretending this is anything other than what it is.”
“Jeremy—” The spoon clattered against the floor as he let it drop, his hand coming up to cover his mouth.
“I know it’s fast. I know we’ve been together less than a week. But I’ve loved you for almost twenty years. That’s not fast. That’s just …” I searched for the words that would convince him. “That’s just my truth.”
He stared at me like I’d grown a second head, as behind him, something on the stove started to hiss.
“Your pasta,” I said, lifting my chin to indicate the pot boiling over behind him.
