Page 79 of Holiday Hopefuls
“Ah, you mean that immaculate silence surrounding us? The one where you could hear a pin drop?” It’s true, the builders did an amazing job soundproofing the place.
He chuckles. “That’s the one.”
“They’re probably in their rooms or downstairs somewhere,” I shrug. “Who cares.” Then it dawns on me. “Oh, of course. Ifwe’re being watched, then we need to pretend like we’re in love. Otherwise, we can act normal.”
A slight frown mars those award-winning features. “Right,” he says.
Taking that confirmation as my disheartening cue, I drop his hand as we reach the landing. “We should be safe, for now.” Even if I instantly miss his warmth.Maybe he’ll hold me if I act cold.
Oliver nods, running a hand through his hair.
“Come on, we’re at the end of the hall.” Muscle memory takes over as I make my way toward my room.
Our room.
Each step is one step closer to staring our strange predicament in the face. Up until now, it’s been relatively easy. Hypothetical.
Looking at Oliver like my life depends on it, complete with hugging and handholding? Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Kissing him in places that our families couldn’t miss if they were legally blind? No problem.
Making out in front of those who might give us trouble? Pass me that sign up sheet, babe.
But this—sharing a bed with Oliver—is something else entirely. We’ll both be at our most vulnerable. We’ll both be soawareof the other person. And it may just make me confront those tiny thoughts deep inside about how this all feels too easy with him.
Dangerously easy.
Like it will never be this easy with anyone else.
The flyer Aaron found in Theo’s Place rears its ugly head in the forefront of my mind, causing me to swallow down the bile that accompanies it. Because none of this is real for him.
Only me.
Reaching our door, I rip off the bandaid and turn the knob. “Home sweet home,” I say, my voice sounding like my foot’s been clawed up by a rabid hyena. The bedrooms aren’t typically privy to Mom’s remodels, so the features are a little older up here. A large, deep red chest of drawers with a flat screen mounted above it sit against the wall to the corridor while two plush chairs and a small bistro table wait to be used by the large glass sliding door leading onto the private balcony. Cedar paneling follows the downstairs trend, with matching nightstands on either side of the intricate wrought iron bed. “Mom only updates the bedrooms every five years or so,” I admit, “but the bathrooms were updated during this last round of overall updates.”
Oliver discards his coat in the closet and peeks into the sleek bathroom with all-white marble, the clawfoot tub and designer shower.
But the light at the end of this tunnel waits for us on the dresser, with our bags resting on the floor beside it.
Mr. Carson’s madeleines.
While Oliver checks out the rest of the room, I drop my coat on the bed and unwrap a madeleine, heading to the sliding glass door. At this time of day, the remaining sunlight hits the snow perfectly, as if it's glittering. The familiar sight helps the rolling nausea.
Mostly.
“Callie,” Oliver says from the other side of the room. “Will you look at me? Please?”
Swallowing the last bit of my cake, I turn to face him.
Oliver leans against the dresser just like the last time I was in his office, and I’m tempted to ask him to roll up his sleeves and put on his glasses.
“Are you okay?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you tried to ensure we had separate beds only a couple of days ago.”
“Oh, that.”
