Page 60 of Holiday Wedding
“The American Museum of Natural History is great. They make an entire Christmas tree out of origami. Outside the front doors, on either side, they have topiaries made of pine that look like dinosaurs. They’re all lit up and hold wreaths in their hands.” He smiles softly at the memory. “Then there’s the music. The boys’ choir at St. Thomas Church, the Philharmonic, Mariah Carey pouring out of every store and bodega.” He closes his eyes and hums a tune off-key. It’s familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
“What’s that?” I ask quietly, not wanting to break this spell. Dean’s relaxed and talking to me like we’re best friends. It’s almost perfect.
“Handel’sMessiah.”
“It’s beautiful.”
The dimple makes its appearance, attached to his smile. “It’s one of myfavorites,” he says shyly. “Then, of course, there’s the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall andThe Nutcrackerat the Lincoln Center. Traffic gets crazy when that’s going on, even crazier than usual.”
“That all sounds wonderful. Too bad I’ll miss it. By the time the storm is over, all that stuff will have shut down.”
“Not all of it. I’ll take you. After the wedding. I’ll show it to you.”
I freeze. It hangs between us, talk of the future, of a day when we aren’t snowbound together in this room. If someone had told me two weeks ago that Dean Maddox would be voluntarily offering to give me a tour of New York, I’d have laughed in their face.
He must hear it, too. His lips pull tight, and his expression shutters, cutting off the warmth in his gaze.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
What’s he apologizing for? Giving me false hope that we might form a friendship? Maybe something more? It doesn’t matter, anyway. As soon as the wedding’s over, I’ll be hitching an airplane straight back to California.
He sits up, with my robe still wrapped tightly around him. “Can you—can you turn around?” he asks out of a clenched jaw. “I want to get dressed. My clothing should be dry now.”
I do as he asks, no peeking.
He clears his throat with a loud, “Done.” He’s put on his dress pants, but not the button-down shirt or suit jacket. He wears only a thin white V-neck undershirt, so translucent I can see whorls of inky tattoos on his chest through it.Wow. Who knew that was hiding under those crisp white button-downs? I look away, trying not to gape.
There’s a clatter from the kitchenette. He asks, “You want peanut butter and jelly for breakfast?”
“Sure.” I roll out of bed and make my way to the bathroom, ignoring the snicker I hear behind me.
“Nice PJs,” Dean calls out, laughing, right before the door closes.
Jerk.
Guess we’re back to this, acting out these roles, like we’re frenemies. At least I know what to expect.
?
I think we’ll be bored, but we aren’t. We find a pack of cards in my suitcase and spend all morning playing them. Blackjack, hearts, crazy eights, go fish. We play it all. After lunch, I dig out a couple of romance books I brought for the plane trip here and back. I lay them on the bed, face up.
“Pick one,” I tell Dean.
He takes a long time deliberating, then chooses a romantasy by Sarah J. Maas with a red cover. I’m impressed he wasn’t intimidated by the thickness of the book. That thing is over 400 pages.
“Nice choice,” I say, picking it up and flipping through the pages before handing it over. “Gwen and I read that together and we loved it, although the second in the series is my favorite.”
We sit side by side in bed, our backs leaning against the headboard, and read in a companionable silence. I always dreamed of this. Reading next to a handsome man. In my imagination, he’d be hot, like Dean, but with glasses he’d push up his nose. When we finished each chapter, we’d kiss, nice and slow. Too bad that won’t happen for me.
Dinner is by candlelight again. Chili warmed up on the stove. I have a bottle of red wine, a nice one I was going to give to Gwen the night before her wedding. I don’t think she’d mind me using it tonight instead. Despite a surprisingly pleasant day, there’s still a thrum of tension under my skin from being this close to Dean. It’s taken strength to hide my attraction to him. To pretend I didn’t notice the way he scratches his chest through his thin T-shirt when he reads or how he chews his lower lip thoughtfully before he selects a card during our games.
“Here,” I say, handing him a plastic cup and pouring a generous amount of wine into it. I doubt he’s stressed from having to spend the day with me, but I can’t drink in front of him without sharing.
“Thanks.” He takes a sip and then another.
We talk about small stuff—families, work, the gym, the upcoming wedding. “I’ve never seen anyone in love the way they are,” Dean admits. “Caleb and Gwen. On the car ride to the airport, they held onto each other as though the world was going to fall apart if they let go.”
“I know.” I roll my shoulders and yawn. The wine’s making me sleepy. “Relationship goals. I’m almost jealous of how affectionate they are.”
