Page 64 of Acting Merry
We break apart, and I press a kiss to the edge of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere,” I say softly.
“Me neither.”
He kisses me again, and this time, it’s tender, an extension of our promise.
A little gust of wind rushes past us, and I shiver.
Cole chafes my arms, and I glance at the cabin—the warm, comfortable cabin—then turn back to him. “Should we head back inside?”
He considers this for a few seconds. “One more kiss?”
I smile. “Maybe just one more.”
His eyes light up, a more effective heater than whatever the cabin can offer. “At least four seconds?”
I laugh and pull his lips to mine.
We’re about to set the world record for four seconds.
epilogue
Reese
I’m snuggled upin my favorite spot in the house, staring through the window, just like I’ve done since I bought it two years ago. The view still gets me every time, but today, it’s not just the evidence of the best season of the year strewn all over the neighborhood that has me in this spot. It’s the anticipation of one specific car I’m waiting for.
I shift my legs under the blanket, and a flash of orange catches my eye near my feet. It’s my own sock—an offensively bright orange background with Reese’s Pieces printed all over. Cole gave them to me for my birthday as a gag, but I actually kind of love them because now they remind me of him. Of us.
My phone buzzes with a FaceTime call. I hold it up, then swipe to answer. “Hey, Mom!”
Her smiling face comes through the camera, her chinmassively distorted from the awkward angle of her phone. “Hey, sweetie!”
Dad’s face pops into frame behind her. “Hi, Reesey!”
I wave at him with a smile of my own.
“Is Cole there?” Mom asks.
I stifle a chuckle and glance outside, but there’s no sign of him. Mom is averybig Cole fan, and he’s settled into his son-in-law role with an ease that warms my heart every time I hear him call her ‘Mom.’ He deserves a good mother figure, and he appreciates the heck out of mine. “Not yet. He should be here soon, though. We’re leaving for the cabin as soon as he gets back.”
“You’ll be back to pick us up from the airport on Monday, though?” she asks. “Or we could get an Uber.”
“We’ll be back,” I reassure her.
They’re coming to spend Christmas with us, which is a pretty big deal, when you think about it. They’ve chosen to come to gray Seattle and hang out with Cole and me when theycouldbe enjoying the sunshine and Christmas morning joy with their grandkids in Florida. And it was their idea.
After everything that happened with Cole and Megan two Christmases ago, I got up the courage to talk to my parents about how I was feeling. They were both horrified they’d made me feel like they didn’t want to see me or spend time with me. They’d assumed I didn’t care to have them come since I’d never offered.
Yet another plug for clear communication over assumptions.
My heart skips at the sight of Cole’s car coming down the street as Mom tells me about one of the Christmas gifts she got him––a Martha Stewart bobblehead.
I check out my husband unabashedly as he gets out of the car and sheds his usual button-down for the white undershirt that’s a wardrobe staple for him. He walks up the sidewalk, and his gaze catches mine through the window.
His mouth stretches into the one smile in the world I still can’t resist. Whenever I get home before he does––which is most days––I hang out here to wait for him. A little like a puppy, honestly. I’m obsessed with my husband, and I’ve accepted that because—guess what? He’s also obsessed with me, and mutual obsession is acceptable. I hope.
When he gets inside, he comes straight over, and I do what I always do––make room for him to sit behind me. I loved this spot from the second I saw it at the showing. Little did I know the guy who built it was the best thing about it.
Fifteen minutes later, I have to confiscate the phone that, at some point, ended up in Cole’s hands, and put an end to his cozy chit-chat with Mom so we can get on the road.
