Page 118 of Holiday Romance
“I’m just trying to be realistic.”
“I know you are, but I’ve had a lot of bad meals in my life, Molly, and not one of them has been from one of your recommendations. There’s a reason everyone always asks you where to go when they want something to eat. And there’s a reason you always have the answer. So, what if it doesn’t fail? What if you’re good at it and it takes off and you make enough money for everything you need and you live out the rest of your days doing what you love?”
“I…”
He frowns when I don’t continue. “Have you really spent the last few weeks trying to figure out another career when you’ve had this idea in the back of your mind? Did you not think that maybe the reason your heart was so against every other path was that you knew exactly what you wanted all along?”
“No.”
“Then what?” He meets my stare straight on, fully ready to argue with me. I hate when he gets all serious and reasonable about things.
“I’ve had too much ice cream to talk about this properly.”
“That old excuse.”
“It’s true,” I protest. “I’m tired.”
“You’re scared.”
“So?” I ask. “There’s nothing wrong with being scared.”
“There’s not,” he agrees. “So long as you don’t stay scared forever.” He taps a finger under my chin when I look away, turning my gaze back to him. “You can get help,” he adds. “It’s not like you have to step outside one day and just start. There’ll be people who can help you.Ican help you. But you have to ask for it. You have to try. And I’d rather you tried than stay miserable, Molly. No matter how scared you are.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. Don’t know how to do anything other than just stare at him. I don’t understand how he always knows what to say to me. How he always knows how to cheer me up and calm me down like he understands me better than I do myself.
My fingers twitch with the now familiar urge to touch him, to be as close as I can to him, and I shift a little, drawing my legs onto the couch.
“There’s a laptop in the other room,” he continues, for once oblivious to where my mind has wandered. “Do you want to show me what you’ve been—”
“Let’s talk about it in the morning.”
“I’m not saying you need to make a decision; I just want to see what you’ve—”
“Andrew.” I turn, swinging one leg over him so I’m straddling his thighs. His hands grip my waist, holding me steady as surprise and then heat flares in his eyes. “Let’s talk about it in the morning,” I repeat, each word slow and clear as I lean down and bring my lips to his.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I am officially obsessed with kissing Andrew Fitzpatrick.
Some people run. Some people bake. Some people paint miniature figurines or upcycle furniture to sell for five times the price. It’s healthy to have hobbies. And now I have mine.
“That’s it,” he murmurs when I finally come up for air. “I’m bringing you home for Christmas every year.”
I smile, tracing his nose with the tips of my fingers. I wonder how I resisted staying away from him for all these years. My heart aches at the thought, at the time wasted, but I quickly disregard it. I’m glad we got to be friends first, that now I get to give myself to him fully without worrying which parts of me he might reject. He’s already seen me at my worst. Tired and stressed, angry and crying. He’s seen it all and still seems to want everything. To want me.
“Were you jealous of my exes?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Andrew just smirks. “Do you want me to be?”
“Maybe.”
He doesn’t reply immediately, seeming to think about his answer. “I wasn’t so much jealous as I was happy when they made you happy,” he says eventually. “And irrationally angry when they made you sad. I may have a protective streak when it comes to you.”
I shrug, trying not to look as happy as I am by that statement. It doesn’t fool him for an instant.
“You like that, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
