Page 47 of Mile High Coach

When I open the door and find him standing there, it takes me a second to blink away the little floaters in my eyes from staring at my laptop for too long. When they’re finally gone, I take another look and confirm that, yes—he’s standing at my door, holding a coffee and looking at me with a determined expression.

At first, a thrill runs through me. I’m not ovulating, but maybe he’s here for a bonus round? My last pregnancy test came back negative. Maybe he’s up for a few more shots before I ovulate again.

“Lovie,” he says, handing the coffee to me and giving me a look, “grab your coat. Let’s go.”

“Grab my coat?” I laugh, taking a sip of the coffee—peppermint mocha, one of my favorites—and sighing into its warmth. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you weren’t in the Christmas spirit,” he clarifies. “So I’m going to take you on a little adventure.”

“A little adventure?” I laugh, looking down at myself and back up. “Are you talking about an adventure in public? BecauseI’m going to need a shower at the very least to show myself. Maybe we’ll have to do this another time.”

“I can wait,” he says, nodding at me and taking a step forward. Blinking, I step backward and let him into my apartment. He’s true to his word, sitting on the couch patiently while I shut down what I was doing and find clothes, disappearing into the bathroom.

While I shower, I shave and exfoliate, heart beating a little too hard at the knowledge that he’s sitting out there right now. As the glass around me fogs up, I slip into daydreams of him pushing open the door, shedding his layers, stepping into the shower with me.

I take a little longer to clean myself up, and when I finally emerge, I find him in the kitchen, just drying his hands on a towel.

“Harrison, you didn’t have to do my dishes.”

“Lot more useful than sitting on the couch.” He shrugs, and when he looks up at me, it takes him a moment to speak.

I pulled out a black sweater dress from the back of my closet and paired it with a set of thermal tights and flats. I also took an extra ten minutes to work together a half-up, half-down crown braid. I had swiped on mascara and lip gloss and dabbed on a little concealer. I also used the nice perfume Chrys got me for my birthday last year.

It’s not a date. I just want to look nice for myself.

“Did you figure out where we’re going?” Harrison finally manages, clearing his throat and straightening up, and I realize it’s not often that I get to see him off-kilter like this. This man has seen me fully naked, has pressed my knees to my chest to help me keep his sperm inside me, and here he is, choked up by the sight of me in a chunky, unsexy dress.

I’d laugh if it wasn’t doing something strange to my insides.

“No,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “But based on your get-up, and the cryptic allusion to the holidays, I thought we might be headed outside. Should I wear boots?”

“You are correct,” he says, seeming to get control of himself. “And yes, you should wear boots.”

It sit by the door, on the arm of the couch, and lace them up while Harrison moves through the apartment, turning off the lights I’ve left on in my wake. Of all my quirks, remembering to turn the lights off is not one of them.

“So, where are we going?” I ask, straightening up and reaching for my other boot.

“It’s a surprise,” Harrison says, and a moment later, he’s kneeling down, his hand on the boot, pulling it closer to me. At first, I think he’s just going to hand it to me, but then his hand on my ankle, maneuvering it into the shoe for me.

“Relax, Harrison,” I laugh, trying and failing to take back control of the boot exercise. “I’m not even pregnant, yet.”

He freezes with the boot on my foot, unlaced, and looks up at me. I realize the implication—that he will be here to help me with my shoes when I’m too big to do it myself.

My cheeks flush, and I stammer, “Not that—not that you?—”

“Hey.” He uses his coaching voice, and it cuts through the air definitively. “You need help with your shoes, you call me, okay?”

Gazes connected, I swallow and nod. He nods back, lacing my boot up the rest of the way, before standing and holding his hands out to me to help me get to my feet.

“My mom used to take me all the time,” he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s fallen back to the earlier subject. “I’ve been every year. You’re going to love it, I promise.”

And, of course, I believe him.

The Baltimore Christmas Market is eclectic and beautiful, swarming with people and smelling of rich cheese, chocolates, sausages, and spices.

“I can’t believe you dragged me here,” I laugh, tightening my fingers on Harrison’s elbow, knowing he probably can’t hear my voice, which is muffled through my scarf as we snake our way through the crowd.

“Really?” I feel, rather than hear, his laugh. It vibrates through my hands, low and slow, and sends a chill up my back. Everything about him does that to me, lately. “I thought you’d love this kind of thing.”

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