Page 94 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year
He nodded like he’d forgotten how to speak. “It was snowing and your hair was...” He gestured to the top of his head like he, a bestselling novelist, had forgotten the worddamp. “You said you looked like a Victorian street urchin.”
She let out a silent laugh. “How did I really look?”
But Ethan grew serious, thinking... remembering... deciding. “I thought you looked like forever.”
This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t real. There aren’t actually men wholooklike that. And there aren’t men whosaythings like that. And they definitely don’t say themto Maggie. The Venn diagram of that moment was three very different circles of nonexistent men, and yet... Ethan Wyatt was... real.
Imagine that.
Guilt was doing war with butterflies in her stomach. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. I was—”
“It’s okay.
She thought about snow and suede shoes and—
“I remember the panic attack. You were so nice, and I should have remembered—”
“It’s okay. Really.”
“Was that the year they told us Eleanor might be there? I was so mad because—you know how the security desk has to print those little stickers? Well, that year, mine had the wrong name on it and I spent the whole night thinking I was going to have to change my name to—”
She remembered the word but sheforgot how to speak and the silence that followed was deafening, full of flying sparks and crackling logs and snow falling in clumps off the rooftop.
And then a deep voice whispered, “Marcie.”
She covered her mouth but the gasp came out anyway, almost echoing in the silence.
He tucked her hair behind her ear. “All this time, I thought you knew. I thought we had an inside joke.”
“Oh, Ethan—”
“If I’d known you didn’t remember... I never meant to hurt you. The last thing I would ever do is hurt you.” The words were almost as hard as the look in his eyes. “I will never hurt you.”
“I know.”
“And that’s why...” He trailed off but looked out the window and she didn’t even have to try to read his mind.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to—”
“I’m not letting you go for help.”
“I could—”
She scooted off his lap, backing away. “No. I know you’d carry me through the storm and fight the sky and all the other really hero-y hot stuff—”
He flashed a small, slow grin. “Is that the technical term?”
“But if you tried to carry me through this storm, we’d probably both break our necks.”
“Try me.” He took it like a dare.
“Next Christmas,” she blurted, feeling nervous and shy and terrifyingly optimistic. “If you still want me, we can do that next Christmas. Someplace warm.”
“It’s a date.” And then all he could do was kiss her. And kiss her. And kiss her. Until he pulled back and breathed against her lips. “And next year, I’ll get you a present.”
Like a magnet, they both turned and looked at the narrow strip of satiny red ribbon that had fallen out of his pocket and onto the floor.
