Page 10 of One Night, Two Holidays

My cheeks warm as I realize what he’s talking about.Thisis why I don’t trust my judgment with men.

“Is it worth burning what’s left of your battery to play some cheesy Christmas music?” he asks.

“First of all, yes.” I remove my hand from his. “Second of all, have a little faith. Hanukkah is the Festival of Lights, it’s a holiday of miracles. The power will be back on before my phone dies.”

“You think?”

I shrug. “I think it’s worth the risk.” I hit play and Mariah Carey comes blasting out the small speakers, singing words that have never been more true: In this moment, all I want for Christmas is Jack.

Too bad I have absolutely no clue whether or not he wants me, too.

Thirty minutes later,we’re down to the last gifts at the bottom of our stockings.

Jack understood the assignment; each gift I’ve opened so far, while nothing extraordinary, has felt special and chosen for me. Like he’s actually gotten to know me over these last twelve hours.

He gave me a notebook from one pharmaceutical company and a pen from another to use for my ideas at work (he paid attention when I told him what I did!), a Ventra card for our next adventure (he wants to hang out with me again!), a full punch-card from the coffee shop down the street valid for a free drink (yum!), a lucky penny so I could make a wish, and a mug that says “myocardium belongs to you,” which he explained was a more technical way of saying his heart.

In Jack’s stocking, I put a scarf that one of Julie’s hookups left here a few weeks ago, a fortune cookie from last night, a bookmark, a dollar so he could buy a scratch-off when the stores open back up, some breath mints, a vanilla candle since he said he didn’t have any, hand sanitizer and a pair of chopsticks.

“Last gifts,” Jack says, rubbing his hands together. “Want to go first?”

“No, you.”

Jack’s face lights up as he reaches back into his compression sock, and I get a flash of what he must have been like as a little boy on Christmas morning. It makes me wish I had something a little more special to give him.

He pulls out the last item—a bag of Hershey Kisses.

“Almost exactly what I was hoping for.” His eyes drift down to my lips, and my stomach does a little flip.

“I mean, they’re not as good as the real thing,” I say. Which is about as forward as I can bring myself to be.

He gives me a slow nod, one eyebrow quirking. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

A little flustered, I reach into the compression stocking and grab what feels like a slip of paper, an oversized Post-it. I pull it out, and it takes me a second to recognize it as a prescription pad. There’s something scribbled on the front—and true to the stereotype, Jack’s handwriting is awful.

I bring the paper closer and try to make out the words—back something?

“It says good for one back rub,” Jack says, laughing. “I told you I had to get creative.”

“I love it—it’s almost exactly whatIwas hoping for,” I say, echoing his words. I wonder if this is his “creative” way of saying he wants to touch me. Turning toward him on the couch, I let myknee brush against his. Jack doesn’t move, and neither do I. “This has been the best Christmas ever.”

“It’s your only Christmas,” he reminds me.

“My first, but hopefully not my last. So, what’s next on our Christmas morning agenda?”

Jack doesn’t hesitate: “Breakfast.”

CHAPTER 9

December 25, 10:26 am

JACK

Since the power’s still out, breakfast options are limited—no fresh cinnamon rolls or quiche happening this morning. But one perk of being snowed in is that the kitchen’s the temperature of a refrigerator, so at least everything in there is preserved.

We settle for cold cereal with milk, a smorgasbord of random snacks from Nessa’s cupboards, and a puzzle. Apparently, one of Nessa’s roommates has a whole stash of them, so when I mention my dad’s tradition of tackling a new 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle every Christmas, she lights up and pulls out one featuring a vintage Chicago lakefront scene.

So, here we are—hunched over the coffee table with the fireplace crackling, piecing together Lake Michigan while we nibble on chips and salsa, fancy cheese, and sliced oranges. Nessa’s telling me about the history of Hanukkah. I’d heard about the story where a small amount of oil lasted for seven days and eight nights—it was the answer to a trivia question one night atMcGee's—but I’d never heard about the Maccabees, a group of Jewish rebels who revolted against an evil Greek emperor, winning back the Temple in Jerusalem. Her eyes are sparkling, and I find myself captivated by them, the way her expressions flicker over her face like a movie screen.

---