Page 90 of Tinsel in Telluride

Or maybe I already have.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

LUCA

The warm early morning sun peaking through the curtains wakes me up. Blinded, I blink a few times to orient myself and remember where I am.

Telluride.

Date with Leigh.

Gondola.

Coffee table.

Bedroom.

I roll over and check the other side of the bed to make sure it wasn’t all a dream.

It wasn’t.

God, she’s beautiful when she sleeps. She’s beautiful all the time, but seeing her like this—her blonde waves splayed across the pillow and the morning light dancing from her bare shoulder down the curve of her body half covered with the thick, fluffy comforter—a knot forms in my throat at the idea of waking up every day to this. And I can’t deny I’d do just about anything to make it a reality.

Last night was?—

Rolling on to my back, I sigh and drag a tired hand over my face.

It was everything I could have hoped for and absolutely don’t deserve.

Leigh stirs beside me and snuggles over into my side, chasing the warmth of my body like a fox burrowing into its den. She lets out a sleepy hum as she tangles her legs with mine and nestles into my chest.

Content to stay here all damn day—or at least until the guys decide they’ve had enough of babysitting—I wrap my arm around Leigh and hold her close.

Thirty blissful seconds are all I get before there’s a knock at the guesthouse door.

So much for all day.

“Who is it?” Leigh mumbles sleepily. “Is it Zach?”

“I’ll go see.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “Even if it is, I've got him. You sleep.”

She utters more unintelligible mumbles as she rolls away from me, burrowing into the blankets and drifting back to sleep.

It’s a simple act. An indulgence she wouldn’t have allowed herself a few days ago. It’s progress. Hope.

With a pep in my step and hope in my heart, I make my way out into the living room, tugging on my jeans along with my sweater from last night.

The knocking starts again just as I reach the door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” I mutter. As I tug it open, I find my twin with one hand raised and the other wrapped around a piping hot cup of coffee.

“Why the hell are there a shit ton of boxes being delivered at eight am on Christmas Eve?” he asks, pushing past me into the kitchen to get out of the cold.

“Good morning to you too,” I mumble, closing the door behind him.

When I turn around to follow, I see Enzo has stopped at the corner of the kitchen island, his eyes glued to where my boxer briefs are strewn across the coffee table. “I take it things went well last night?”

“You could say that.”

---