Page 32 of Crossing Into Brooklyn

“Would you?”

“I would. I’d read anything you write.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

I smile and accept the compliment silently. “So?” I begin. “Shopping?”

“Shopping,” she agrees. “But not before coffee.”

“I never say no to coffee.”

“Good. I hope you can help me today.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, Jeremey mentioned that you always buy the coolest gifts. He and Phillip told me that your presents were the best every year at Christmas when they were kids. I’m terrible at gifts,” Brooklyn explains.

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“No. It is. I have no idea what to buy a one-year-old boy!”

“What did you buy Josie when she turned one?” I ask.

“I didn’t. My mother did all the shopping.”

“Ah. The plot thickens,” I say. “So, you invited me to shop for you.”

“It’s a bonus.”

“A bonus?”

“Yes. I love the city at Christmastime.”

Understandable. The holiday lights, decorations, and added bustle are enchanting. “How exactly is my shopping experience a bonus?” I could be wrong. It is cold outside, but I think Brooklyn is blushing.

“I think it’s something you should share. The city this time of year,” she tells me. “With someone who believes in magic.”

Tingles run down my spine at her words. Or maybe it’s the way she’s looking at me. I know better than to believe I see what I feel reflected back to me. New York doesn’t hold a candle to Brooklyn Brady. She defines enchanting. I look for a way to recover. Quickly. “Are you hoping all my experience will help you uncover where the elves are hiding?”

Brooklyn grins. “Maybe. Maybe if you sit on Santa’s lap, he’ll tell you.”

“I think you might have a better chance coaxing that intel out of Mr. C.”

“Want to make a bet?”

I laugh. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than spend a day with Brooklyn. No. I can’t think of anyone I would rather spend any day—every day with than Brooklyn. The thought might knock me over if I wasn’t rooted in place. I’ve never been struck by lightning. I’ve read countless passages that describe a moment of emotional realization as a lightning strike. I suppose it might feel like a sudden burst of hot energy to most people. Me? I feel the same way I did when I fell off my bike in the sixth grade. Stunned. Breathless. Motionless. It’s as if I’ve hit the ground with tremendous force. All the air has escaped from my lungs. I fear I will never breathe freely again. Not the most romantic description of love. Who said love always came with romance?

“Carter? Hey, if you don’t want to sit on Santa’s lap, I won’t force you.”

Breathe, Carter. “What are we betting?” I manage to ask.

“Well—whoever gets the goods on the elves from Santa buys dinner.”

“And if Santa refuses us both?”

“Oh, he’ll sing.”

---