Page 36 of The Art of Being Merry
I’m forced to confront Dax. He’s lowered Jace to the ground, and he and Atlas are looking at more decorations. Dax’s expression has morphed into something almost unreadable, something akin to adoration.
“Thanks. I’m surprised you could see the connection to the wall without it being in front of you. Most people wouldn’t be able to.”
He tilts his head. “Not so hard when it’s the same shade as your eyes, Clementine.”
With his parting words, he walks away.
What the hell did he just say?
How does this man continue to surprise me at every turn?
A better question is how long am I going to let him before I do something about it?
And what exactly will that something be?
11
dax
I shouldn’t knowthe exact color of her eyes—an emerald that shines like the diamond itself.
I shouldn’t know it’s the same color as the accent wall in her living room.
Yet, I know both. Because I’ve stared at both for longer than I’m willing to admit.
I needed to get out of her space. She was too close, which might have been my doing. I don’t know anymore. All I seem to know is wherever she is, I want to be. As close as possible without making things weird.
Which is weird. I’ll be the first to admit it.
The divorce isn’t final, and she’s not looking for another relationship. Who could blame her? Even if she were, I’m not the relationship type.
So why I’m obsessed with the woman is beyond any thinking, imaginative or based in reality.
But I can’t stay away.
I’ve been in her vicinity for the past three days, with a plan for tomorrow too, and my brain is already finding ways to extend it longer. What idea can I come up with to see her on Wednesday?
On Thursday?
Every day until eternity ends.
Wow, there is definitely something wrong with me.
I shake out of these maddening and impractical thoughts and go in search of where the boys ended up. Hopefully, she caught up with them because rational thought left the building when I commented about her eyes.
Ah, perhapsrationalthought has escaped me for most of the last several days.
I meet up with the Powell family by the huge Christmas tree display. It’s a staple in the store and famous in our town because it’s the only decorated tree left up year-round. At least for public viewing. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are residents who also leave their trees up for the year.
It’s the only reason I’ve ever contemplated having an artificial tree. However, as Clementine explained, I’m not sure I could do it.
“Did we find everything we need?” I direct my question to the boys, not sure I can face Clementine at the moment.
“Tree topper, check. New ornaments, check.” Atlas ticks each item on his fingers.
“What about lights?” An important thought occurs to me. I take a step from the crowd, holding up my hands. “Serious question time. One, do you have lights for the tree?”
The boys both look at their mom. “There were some strings in the boxes, but I didn’t test them.” A tinge of red coats her cheeks. I shouldn’t find it anything beyond a simple fact, though I can’t help being drawn to it. Her cheeks give her away a lot—the consequences of having red hair and more sensitive skin. Each time, it’s more appealing.
