Page 50 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

“Don’t look,” she says as we head for the register. “It’s a surprise.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

We pay for our things and then leave, flagging down a taxi to take us back to my house. Molly cradles her Christmas cactus the whole time, looking at it every now and then with a little smile on her face.

Keeping distance between us would be so much easier if she weren’t so cute.

We spend the afternoon doing a whole lot of nothing. I sit on the loveseat and watch while Molly painstakingly threads each pom-pom onto the thread she bought, until she has a garland of colorful little poofs. She winds it carefully around the cactus, singing under her breath the whole time. She’s not a particularly gifted singer, but I vaguely recognize “Joy to the World” and “Winter Wonderland.”

And something about this scene tugs at my heart in a way that’s almost painful. Growing up my home was never very festive during the holidays; my dad worked long hours, and my mom split when I was still a kid. I have very few memories of decorating for Christmas or Thanksgiving or anything like that. All those memories come from spending time with the O’Malleys.

But here I am, decorating my own home with Molly O’Malley. It’s so…domestic. And it’s impossible not to think about the future when I see a scene like this—a woman who makes me smile, wrapping a pom-pom garland around a makeshift Christmas tree, all but glowing with that inner light she has.

Is this how it would be? Is this what a life with Molly would look like?

I sigh, shoving one hand through my hair. I’m being stupid. I’m not going to have a life with Molly. My feelings for her aren’t real; they’re just a product of our situation. I’ll forget all about her when she and her family leave the island.

“Do you have wrapping paper?” Molly says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I give her a flat look. “What do you think?”

She cocks one brow at me. “Don’t give me attitude,” she says.

My laugh sounds unnaturally loud in my tiny home. “Sorry,” I say. “But you have to know I’m not the kind of guy to keep wrapping paper on hand, right?”

“Meh,” she says, but she can’t stop her smile. “That’s fine. I don’t need it, I guess. I’ll just keep your present in the bag.”

“I won’t hold it against you,” I say, nodding.

“After all,” she says. “ThetrueChristmas gifts are the friendships we’ve made along the way—”

My snort of laughter interrupts her, and she grins.

“Do you remember that Christmas when my dad was in charge of buying the wrapping paper?” she says.

“But he waited too long, so by the time he got to the store they only hadHappy Birthdaypaper left? Yeah,” I say, smiling. “I remember that.” I went over to the O’Malleys’ house Christmas afternoon, and I found that they had waited for me to get there to open presents. “That was the Christmas your brother and I got in trouble for hand-delivering mistletoe to all the girls in the neighborhood.”

Molly laughs. “I forgot about that,” she says, looking at me. She scoots her body around so that she’s facing the loveseat. “Who came up with that plan?”

“Who do you think?” I say with a roll of my eyes.

“Wes,” she says.

“Definitely. If anyone would come up with a way to kiss multiple girls on Christmas, it’s your brother.”

Molly sighs, but she’s still smiling, and there’s a faraway look in her eyes. “I remember being so upset,” she says. “I was—I mean—” Her gaze darts to mine, and I’m surprised to see her cheeks turning pink. “I kind of had a crush on you back then,” she says. “When I was in middle school.”

I move quickly past my surprise—not that she had a crush on me, but that she’s bringing it up. “I know,” I say, grinning at her. “I could tell.”

“Could you?” she says, pressing her hands to her cheeks. She gives me an impish little smile. “I guess I wasn’t very good at hiding it.”

“You were not,” I say. “But it’s okay. I knew you’d get over it eventually.” Of course, now part of me—the weak part of me that wants what it can’t have—wishes shehadn’tgotten over it. “I’m sure you moved on to bigger and better things, huh?”

She doesn’t respond; she just drops her gaze to the carpet, keeping her hands pressed over her cheeks.

Why isn’t she answering?

My pulse jumps in my veins, my heart starting to beat more quickly as I study her. She’s still staring at the carpet, and even though her hands are still on her cheeks, I can spot the increasing flush of her skin—pink and freckled and so soft-looking I want to reach out and touch her.

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