Page 119 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
“And there we go, that’s what I’m trying to capture in my novels,” Julie mutters from the phone screen, taking notes like I’m some specimen in a lab.“The haunted pipes, the dripping ceiling, the almost naked vet with feelings.Chef’s kiss.”
Eve sniffles, laughing through it.“God, we’re ridiculous.” “Yeah,” I say, brushing a tear from her cheek.“But worth it.”
“I agree.”
“Ladies,” Claire interrupts from the phone, “we’re about one towel-slip away from an R-rating.Time to hang up.”
“Wait,” Eve says before her friends can disconnect, her spine straightening with a determination I haven’t seen before.“I’m done letting Chuck control my future.And I’m not running from his podcast threats.”
My eyebrows shoot up, pride filling my chest.
“That’s my girl,” Claire whoops as Harper gives a dramatic chef’s kiss to the screen.
“I don’t know how yet,” Eve continues, her voice gaining strength with each word, “but I’m done playing by his rules.Done letting him make me doubt myself.Done letting him take what matters.”
Fuck, yes.There she is, thetake-no-shitEve who once demolished a neurosurgery resident in ouriZombieforum for claiming Liv’s medical instincts weren’t realistic.
She still has that fierce intensity.But now, she’s letting the tears come too, and somehow, that makes her stronger.Different—shaped by cancer and Chuck and everything in between—but still Eve.Still brilliant and stubborn, still tapping that rhythm I’d know blindfolded.
And I love all of her.Everything that makes her,her.The nurse, the survivor, the romance reader, the woman who names vibrators after me.The one who cries.The one who doesn’t.The one standing her ground against Chuck.The one who’s discovered that real strength isn’t born from perfection but from embracing every messy, complicated piece of yourself.Every version that exists and every one still to come (and not only on my tongue).
Feeling can be so fucking scary.I know, because it’s the same for me—I have to actually feel my own disappointments and fears if I’m not busy fixing someone else’s.Maybe that’s why we fit, why we found each other twice.We’re both learning how to grow at the same time, how to not hide our broken parts and still feel whole.
“My husband used to be Scrooge,” Julie pipes in with a thoughtful frown, “but he had a growth arc and layers which I don’t see in Chuck...”
“Your husband contacted me,” I say.
Julie smiles.“He’s been divesting and funding everything from the firehouse to cancer research.”
Poppy adds, “Even our renovations, if the permits ever move.”
“Tristan’s dealing with the same delays for his Inn,” Julie adds.“He was telling us yesterday how he had to reschedule contractors for the third time.”
Poppy scoffs.“Please.As if that pretentious infinity pool of his qualifies as‘historical.’All he needs is another fancy feature to compete with my authentic Cape Cod experience.”Her tone is dismissive, but there’s a flush creeping up her neck that tells a different story.
“The point is,” Julie continues, “Landon’s on a billionaire redemption arc.Twelve-step philanthropy.His therapist is thrilled.”She gives me a meaningful look.“He believes in community-based projects, but also in the stuff that can always get better, but only by showing up, listening, taking time.Not everything has to be a meme.”
Harper mutters, “Here she goes again.”
“Flood mapping.Literacy.All the invisible stuff people only notice when it breaks.Last week I caught him watching a webinar on—”
“Landon watches alotof webinars,” Poppy cuts in.
“And PBS,” Julie says, a little dreamy.“It’s really hot.Honestly, the man makes civic infrastructure feel like foreplay.He hit the Social Security cap in February and got mad he couldn’t keep contributing.Said the system needs the money, and he’s got more than enough, especially with all the loopholes he benefits from.Doesn’t understand why more people aren’t talking about that.”
Harper snorts.“Tragic.Billionaire discovers tax code works in his advantage.”
Eve smiles faintly.“He didn’t like Chuck.”She winces when my thumb brushes a cut.My focus snaps to her palms, cataloging each injury with the precision I’d use for a surgery.Her eyes drift to the closed door where fragments of her grandfather’s heart lie shattered.
“Chuck doesn’t want that ornament because he cares about it,” she says, her voice finding that steady clinical tone she retreats to when feeling too much.“He wants it because it matters to me.Another weapon in his arsenal now that it’s destroyed.The perfect Christmas villain.”
Her friends debate which Christmas villain Chuck is.And not the sexy dark romance kind.
I work silently, turning her hands over in mine with the same careful attention I’d give to an injured animal.Those capable hands that save lives every day, now marked with pinpricks of blood from trying to gather the countless glass shards.Even in crisis, she’d triaged, animals first.
“I’ll take care of these cuts, then I’m taking care of you,” I murmur.“And later, we’ll discuss exactly how thorough my examination techniques can be.”
Eve’s breath catches, a flush spreading up her neck that has nothing to do with her injuries.“Very professional bedside manner, Dr.Harrison.”
