Page 52 of Take Me Home for Christmas

“I don’t think I could answer that question and maintain our happy mood.”

She grabbed my hand. “Tell me. I know you don’t like to talk about your past, but I really want to hear about it. I mean, it’s part of who you are.”

She’d told me about Charlie and Grace, so I couldn’t argue about that. “There were promises of gifts. Like a red bike I wanted badly. A pair of Rollerblades. A baseball bat. But nothing ever materialized. Eventually, I learned to scrape and make sure to get something for my sister every year. Of course, the foster parents were always nice, but by then, I guess I just cared about surviving Christmas.”

Her expression nearly brought me to my knees. It was half sadness, half horror. I should have minimized it. Lied. Anything to avoid that look, which was slicing straight through my chest. “Don’t be sad about it,” I said quickly. “I’m not.”

Before I could react, I suddenly found my arms full of Mia—the scent of her hair, the soft slide of her down jacket against mine. Right there in the crowded store, she’d somehow wrapped herself around me and was holding on tightly. Like, really tightly—as if she could squeeze all that pain right out of me. With all our shopping bags that ended up at our feet, we must’ve been quite a sight.

“Don’t,” I managed. “Don’t feel sorry for me, okay?”

She kissed my cheek. Then my other cheek. Then my mouth. Of course, I gladly accepted her attempts to ease my suffering.

Finally, I had to chuckle. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to make you laugh.” As she unwrapped herself, I saw a tear in her eye.

No one had ever done that for me—cried for what I’d gone through. I found myself getting choked up for the second time that day. Instinctively, I reached up and traced her tear with my finger. “At least when I wasn’t honest and open, I didn’t make you cry.”

She reached up and took my hand, pressing her cheek against my palm. That slayed me even more.

“I hurt for that boy,” she whispered, her eyes soft. “I want to do anything to help erase that pain.” I didn’t know what to say to that. Honesty came so easily to her, whereas I was always tongue-tied.

The crowds around us faded away, and I saw only her. “I’m fine,” I whispered. “Don’t waste your worry on me.”

I kissed her again. I mean, I was desperate, so full of emotion that this woman wanted to…well, to heal me. The most shocking thing was that I dared to believe it, that she could somehow replace my wounds with her sunshine and light.

She pressed her lips, her whole body to mine, demanding that I forget everything but her.

And it worked. I lost track of everything except for her mind-blowing kisses, her caring heart, her…

I was afraid to saylove.A fierce need rose up within me. I had to get a grip. There was too much feeling. It was like submerging,going under, drowning in emotions I had no control over. They were amazing and totally terrifying at the same time.

Mia was a bright light. She was Christmas lights. When you were surrounded by them, everything wintery, dingy, and barren became glorious and bright. Transformed.

Fortunately, some teenage boys were walking down the next aisle and yelled, “Hey, get a room!” and we broke apart, laughing.

We got back to work, Mia picking out Emma’s present, and I doing a little more sneak shopping of my own before meeting up again in front of the store.

“You know what we need now?” Mia asked, mischief in her eyes.

I looked around at the crowds. Suddenly became aware of piped-in Christmas music playing over our heads. “I’m afraid to ask. How many more stores are there?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “I think we’ve earned a treat.” As we picked up our bags, she hooked her arm in mine and led me…somewhere. It could’ve been straight off a cliff, and I would’ve followed.

“What kind of treat?” I waggled my eyebrows suggestively as she led me out of the store. “The treat I want isn’t on Main Street.”

She smiled and shook her head. “This one is definitely on Main Street. Do you smell it?”

She took a huge sniff, so I did too.

It was the smell of something savory cooking. Warm and delicious and fried. I really couldn’t identify it any further than that, other than it made my stomach growl. “What is it?”

“Cheese curds. You like them?” she asked. I heard the hope in her voice.

Uh oh. “If I answer that, you have to promise not to shame me.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “Wait a minute. I figured out you were a sledding virgin. But a cheese curd virgin too?”

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