Page 127 of Faking All the Way
He’s already awake, watching me with those blue-gray eyes that still make my stomach swoop as if I’m on a roller coaster.
“I love you,” he says immediately. His voice is still rough with sleep, deeper than usual. But the way he says it makes my chest squeeze in the best way.
He’s been saying it constantly since we got back together a few days ago. For real this time, not fake. Almost like he can’t believe he gets to say it to me, like he’s making up for all the time we wasted being scared.
“I love you too,” I whisper back. Then I stretch up to kiss him softly, my lips finding his. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, bright eyes.”
I grin at the nickname, pulling back to look at him. “You know, when you first called me that, I was sure it was something you called all the girls you dated. You came up with it so quickly, like you didn’t even have to think about it.”
He huffs a laugh, his arms tightening around me. “I’ve never called anyone else that. It’s just for you.”
“Really?”
He cups my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. “Really. That was one of the first things I noticed about you. One of the first things I loved. The way your eyes light up from inside when you talk about something you’re passionate about.”
He kisses me again, and we don’t rush any of it, slow and lazy and perfect. Neither of us in any hurry to leave the bed or each other. His hands roam over my body, sliding under my t-shirt to touch bare skin. My fingers thread through his hair, still messy from sleep.
When we finally come up for air, both of us breathing a bit harder, he rests his forehead against mine. “We should probably get up. It’s Christmas.”
“Five more minutes,” I mumble, burrowing closer to him.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “You said that ten minutes ago.”
“And I was right then too.”
Eventually though, he kisses my forehead and says, “Coffee?”
I sigh dramatically but agree. “Fine. But only because you make it better than I do.”
“That’s not true. You just like having someone make it for you.”
“Also true,” I admit with a grin.
We pad into the kitchen together in our sleep clothes. I’m in a baggy shirt that I borrowed from him, and he’s in gray sweats that hang low on his hips in a way that’s seriously distracting. We move around each other easily as we get coffee started, andwhen he hands me my mug with coffee and creamer in it a few minutes later, I can’t help grinning as I take my first sip. This simple thing, this morning routine, will truly be my life going forward.
No more end date looming, no more bracing for when the arrangement is over.
We take our coffee to the living room, sitting down in front of the Christmas tree. The one we decorated together a couple of weeks ago, with its slight lean that we decided gave it character. The ornament he bought at that little shop in town is hanging near the top, catching the light.
There are only two presents underneath the tree. One wrapped in silver paper with a blue bow that I recognize as my wrapping job. The other in more professional-looking paper, neat corners and a perfectly tied ribbon.
“You first,” Asher insists, pushing the professionally wrapped box toward me.
I set down my coffee and pick up the box. It’s heavier than I expected. I tear the paper off, not even trying to be neat about it. Just ripping through it like a kid on Christmas morning.
When I see what’s inside, I gasp.
It’s a hockey jersey. The fabric is thick and high quality, official team material. In the Denver Aces colors that I’ve learned over the past few weeks. Blue, black, and white.
But when I lift it out of the box and turn it over, my heart actually stops for a second.
“BRIGHT EYES” is printed across the back in bold white letters. With the number 27 underneath. My lucky number.
I stare at it, my throat tight.
“You had this custom made,” I breathe. “You had them put my nickname on it.”
