Page 73 of Back to December
I can feel her eyes on me, studying me. “Are you just making that up?”
“You can Google it.” I shrug—or try, since both hands are on the wheel.
She waits a beat, then tugs her phone out, her fingers flying across the letters on the screen.
“I can’t believe you know that,” she says, a little awestruck. Then softer, “You’re such an adorable little nerd.”
My cheeks warm. Coming from someone else, it might come across like an insult, but from Laila? Total compliment.
She slides the CD into the player in my truck, then chooses track three as soon as the tracks populate. Her eyes slide over to me.
“I know it’s your favorite.”
She’s right. The first chords of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” fill the car as if on cue, and for a few seconds, the tension softens. Her laughter does what music never could—turns noise into warmth.
“Maybe I always enjoyed how you used to sing this off-key on purpose,” I say.
“Joke's on you, Holden. Ialwayssing off-key.”
The music fades under the hum of the tires and snow, and I risk a glance at her. She’s not as relaxed as I’d hoped, but I understand. I’ve only been on the road in conditionslike this one other time, and it was just as stressful as it is now.
I don’t ask what she’s remembering. I already know.
I hesitate for half a second before peeling her hand off the console and threading my fingers through hers. She doesn’t pull away, and that’s all the permission I need.
All the things I said back in October don’t matter anymore. At this rate, I won’t make it back home—and there’s no way I’m leaving her alone in that house.
We can be grownups and figure out the rest later.
She exhales at the windshield, fogging the glass like she’s drawing hearts. For a flash, it’s the girl from the sleigh-ride photo, not the one running from ghosts.
Laila is strong and capable, but she builds walls faster than anyone I know. Sometimes I think getting to know her deepest layers is about on par with finding out who killed JFK.
I ease my foot off the gas, content to take longer if driving one-handed keeps her calm. Her shoulders drop a fraction. I wish she knew her touch steadies me, too. But saying it might break the spell.
Every time she comes back to Enchanted Hollow, I tell myself I’ll play it safe. Then she looks at me, andsafeis the furthest thing from my mind. There’s a difference between craving a cookie and knowing you’ll starve without the whole batch. Burned edges and all.
It’s been simmering beneath the surface for years, but when she walked into my bakery in September—kissed me like the months and years apart didn’t matter—I knew pretending wasn’t an option anymore. It hasn’t for a while, but that moment solidified that for me.
And in true Laila fashion, she acted likeshe didn’t hear me. Like I hadn’t already been saying it—out loud—for six years. Even longer if you consider all the ways I said it in every way but words.
When she chose her career, I wasn’t angry. Just confused that she thought she couldn’t have both. She kept insisting her world didn’t fit mine, but maybe she just didn’t see how easily it could.
I never gave her an ultimatum. Never said, “Pick me or your job”.Just more than weekends and Sunday morning brunches on video chat.
I want the Laila that lights up over the small things like cute coffee cups and the smell of autumn. Photo angles and goofy blankets. The one who gives away over half the items she gets at her job, but still somehow calls herself selfish.
She’s far from it.
When she insisted on distance after Holly and Cade’s wedding, I gave it to her. But I still saw the breadcrumbs she left—helping shops, amplifying stories, never taking credit. The town talked; she never did.
I brush my thumb across her knuckles. She doesn’t know it, but I’d take every version of her—restless, guarded, messy. Maybe I should’ve said that instead of waiting for perfect timing. There’s no perfect timing in love; just people trying anyway.
Because the truth is: pieces of Laila are better than nothing at all.
“How far do you think?” she asks softly.
“Just up ahead.”
