Page 63 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

I swallow all the words that want to escape—declarations of love and propositions about forever—and rein myself in. “You’re pretty great,” I say instead. More tears spring to my eyes as I watch the emotions play over his face.

“Are you crying again?” he says quickly.

“These are good tears,” I say, my voice quiet.

“Wes said you might be emotional,” he says. “Do you remember hearing us talk?”

“I remember that he was on the phone, but I don’t remember anything you guys said,” I say.

“That’s okay,” he says. “It wasn’t anything important.” Then he reaches up and wipes my tears from my cheeks.

Ugh. I want to date this man. I want to be with him so badly. I know he has baggage, but the raw materials are ready to be polished into high-quality gemstones. He would be an incredible boyfriend, husband, father—all of it.

We would have to get to know each other better, and we would probably have some speed bumps as we unpacked his relationship hang-ups. But I have a feeling it would be worth it.

“You know,” I say, trying and failing to hold back a yawn. “You’re relatively closed off, and I think you’re probably a runner, but you’re also way more communicative than I would have expected.”

Beckett is quiet for a second before nodding. “I am a runner,” he says. “And I usually am closed off.”

“But you talk about things,” I say. “And you’re reasonable. I like that.” I pause. “I likeyou.”

He sighs. “I like you too. But…”

“I know,” I say. “And I understand.” I search quickly for a new subject. “It’s still Christmas Eve. Should we watch another Christmas movie?”

I can tell from the way he hesitates that he’s not ready to drop the subject, but thankfully he nods anyway. There’s not much more to say; not yet, anyway. He can’t make me any promises right now. “Yeah,” he says. “Pick something and I’ll pull it up on my laptop.”

I decide on a movie while Beckett makes us two mugs of mint hot chocolate, served in red Solo cups. I last maybe half an hour before I can’t keep my eyes open anymore; the last thing I’m aware of is Beckett carrying me bridal-style into the bedroom, where he settles me onto the mattress with impossible gentleness.

“Merry Christmas Eve,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead and then draping a blanket over me.

And my last thought before drifting off is that even though it’s been an iffy day, I wish every night could end like this—with Beckett next to me, his lips on my forehead, his hand in mine.

Maybe in a few months. Maybe in a few years.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Nineteen

Beckett

I do not sleepone wink all night.

I stay awake, alternating between staring at the ceiling and staring at Molly, and watch as the Christmas Eve hours fade into Christmas morning hours. I listen as my heart performs its rusty dance every time I let myself think about kissing this woman, about making her mine—a pounding rhythm in my chest that pushes at my rib cage until I’m sure Molly will hear.

These feelings are absolutely absurd. They’ve sprung up out of nowhere. And yet I can’t deny that they’re real—and they’re strong.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been so deprived of female companionship for the last eight months. Is that possible? Heck, I don’t remember the last date I went on, and I’m not the kind of guy who does one night stands. So maybe that’s it—maybe I’m just lonely.

Something deep inside rebels at this idea, though, and when I try to imagine falling for some other woman, my stomach turns unpleasantly. That feeling only intensifies when I try to picture the mattress next to me being occupied not by Molly but instead by one of the most gorgeous women to ever exist: Marilyn Monroe.

Marilyn was stunning, but did she ramble about fish when she got nervous? Did she look adorable with mud caking her skin? Would she have told me in no uncertain terms that I was part of the O’Malley clan—that their love for me was unconditional?

I doubt it. And if I’m not interested inMarilyn, I’m not going to be interested in anyone else, either.

That settles it. I don’t think I like Molly because I’m lonely. I think I like Molly because she’s Molly.

I like her, and she’s leaving. Today, in fact; the wan sunlight peeking through my curtains tells me that morning has come, and today is the day that the rest of Molly’s family will arrive to pick her up. It’s the reason I’m hanging onto by a thread, the single fact I keep reminding myself about: I cannot promise Molly anything, and I cannot start anything with her, because she’s leaving. And as much as I want her now, I need to be sure that these feelings are sustainable—that they’re not going to fade in a week once the craziness of the last few days has been put behind us. At this exact moment in time it seems like they’ll last forever, but her words keep ringing through my mind—that people in extreme situations often bond more quickly because of their shared experiences. It makes sense, then, that once those extreme situations have passed, the extreme emotions might lessen as well.

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