Page 69 of Holiday Wedding
At the airport, Christmas music plays in the speakers overhead. It’s a prerecorded loop. I’ve spent so many hours at the gate that I know which song is next. AfterLittle Drummer Boy,it always goes toBaby, It’s Cold Outside,the old Dean Martin version.
My nightly phone calls with Caleb grow progressively more strained.
We still end with “I love you,” but I fear there will come a day when those words are too hard to push past our lips, when they are said out of duty rather than genuine emotion. The thought tears me apart.
25
Sunday, December 23
1 day until the wedding
Jenny
It’s a man,” Dean says excitedly, staring at the phone in his hands. I crack the hard candy, grape this time, between my teeth with a loud crunch. Dean doesn’t respond to the sound, which makes me smile. He’s grown familiar with my various noises over the past couple of days. I still can’t believe it, can’t believe I’m snowbound with Dean Maddox. It’s been bliss, this time together. We’ve gotten to know each other better than ever before. If it weren’t for Gwen’s wedding, I wouldn’t want the snow to ever melt.
“What man?” I swallow the candy and chase it with a sip of water.
We’re sitting next to each other at the small table in my hotel room. A couple of dry pine needles have fallen onto the floor from my Charlie Brown Christmas tree. I remind myself to sweep them up later.
Dean holds out his phone to me. My cell phone died on the second day with no way to recharge it since the power’s still out. He’s been conserving his battery, only turning it on for 10 minutes in the morning and 10 at night. Mostly he uses it to check up on his family and on Caleb, who’s in better shape than us. Caleb’s also stuck in his apartment, but at least he’s got power. Dean says Caleb sounds strained, though. Probably stressed about the wedding and Gwen being stranded in Denver.
Dean cackles, a triumphant sound I haven’t heard from him before. “Dummy finally made a mistake.”
I take the phone from his hand. It’s open to the Secret Santa website, the recent photos tab. There’s a picture of Caleb’s building, taken from the spot we staked out before, where the photographer hides behind the trees. In this photo, Caleb has stuck his head out of the front door. He’s looking around with an air of displeasure, his mouth turned down and his brows lowered, like the five feet of snow before him is a personal offense.
I’m confused by Dean’s jubilant expression. “What? We already know Caleb’s a man.”
“Not Caleb,” he says, “the stalker.” He jabs at the screen, directing my attention to the left side. “He included his hand in the shot.”
I bring the phone closer to my face and peer at it. Sure enough, in the bottom corner of the photo is a hand pressed against a tree trunk, like the photographer lost his balance as he took the picture and had to reach out so he didn’t fall.
“You’re right. That is a hand.”
“Aman’shand.” Dean comes behind me and rests his chin on my shoulder so he can look at the phone too. “See? Hairy knuckles.”
The pale hand braced against the tree is blocky, with short fingernails and hair across the back of it. I jerk my gaze up to Dean, my eyes widening as the implications of the photo hit me.
“This is great. We can eliminate 50 percent of the population.” I think briefly about my computer program, the one I made to search for the stalker, but it still hasn’t come up with any results. Apparently, my coding skills were too rusty.
I tap at the screen of Dean’s phone.
“What are you doing?” he asks, watching with interest.
“Emailing Ron and Bradly, the reporters. I’m telling them to focus on men.” I’ve kept in contact with my reporter friends. So far, they’re just as clueless as Dean and I have been. I sign the email and hit send.
Dean places a whisper of a kiss in the crook of my neck. With a sigh, my eyelids flutter shut. I lean my head to the side to give him better access. My hand comes up to wrap around his head, pushing through his thick, soft hair.
He removes his lips from my skin. “Don’t stop,” I tell him, not opening my eyes. Strong arms slide under my legs and back, surprising me. I let out a yelp as he picks me up easily, as if I were light as a feather. Dean carries me over to the bed and tosses me high in the air. I land on the bedspread with a muffled thump, laughing.
“If you wanted to snuggle, you could have just said so.”
“I always want to cuddle up with you,” he says and grins, a fact he’s proved repeatedly. We’ve spent hours holding each other, talking and kissing.
“You didn’t that first night,” pops out of me, so quickly that my hand flies up to cover my mouth, but it’s too late.
Dean pauses and sits down next to me.
“Never mind,” I tell him, mad at myself for bringing it up. “It’s old news.”
