Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“Is it? Charcoal?”
She nods. “It is. You’d look good in burgundy too.” She tilts her head, studying me. “And midnight blue. Oh! And ice blue would look nice as well.” Her gaze turns a little dreamy.
“Mabel, are you giving me a suit makeover right now in your head?”
“I was.”
“You’re picturing a department store. The men’s section. Picking out all the colors. Dressing me. You’ve got a whole movie montage in that brilliant brain of yours, don’t you?”
“Hey! It was a fancy suit shop. With a tailor on staff. And custom fits.”
I tip my head back and laugh.
She snuggles closer, and the dogs do the same. “Maybe I can take you suit shopping as a Christmas gift? From me to you?” she asks, her voice hopeful. Then she walks it back. “Actually, I can’t afford a suit. So it’s not really a gift. Sorry!”
Oh, yes it is. And I’m not letting her take it back. “The gift is you being my personal stylist. I’ll take care of the suits.”
She gasps, sits up straighter. “Really? You’ll let me?”
I press my forehead to hers. “Don’t you know? I’ll pretty much let you do anything.”
She shoves a hand playfully against my chest. “Pushover.”
“I believe the term is cinnamon roll,” I say, then I cup her cheeks and kiss her on the couch, with two little foster dogs snuggling up against us, and my daughter sleeping soundly upstairs.
And everything feels right.
The only problem is I’m leaving for New York in two days. And tomorrow I need to work out in the morning, finish packing, make sure Charlotte has everything she needs, and return these two dogs to Mrs. Henderson. There’s just no time to indulge in shopping now.
But what about later?
Might as well roll the dice. “Can we make a date after Christmas? Since I leave on Friday morning.”
I’m deliberate with the word choice. Putting date out there. Hoping she picks it up. Or at least, the meaning.
She sighs, like she’s so very disappointed. “Fine. We’ll do it after Christmas. So typical of you to edge me.”
“I knew you liked edging,” I say, sliding a hand up the denim covering her thigh.
“I do,” she whispers.
And I want to touch her more, to undo those jeans, to slide a hand between her thighs. But I won’t do that in my home with my kid here. Instead, I press a soft, barely there kiss to her neck. “And when I see you after Christmas, I’ll finish this.”
I cup her where she’s warm for me, already turned on.
Her breath catches. “You tease.”
“If you think I’m such a tease, just wait till you see your Christmas gift.”
She whines. “You’re the king of edging.”
“I know.”
The next day as I’m packing, the little dog with the darker head nudges aside the socks I’ve dropped in my suitcase.
“You want to come to New York, little cutie?” I ask Mischief.
She’s a determined beast, and she keeps nosing at the socks. Her friend trots into my bedroom, and Mayhem gets in on the action too, checking out my suitcase, tunneling through socks until…they find something white and shiny in my suitcase. It’s got a silvery bow on it.
I pick it up, turn it over like it’s a treasure.
Some dangerous hope builds in me. It’s stupid and yet it has a hold of me. There’s a small card on it. It’s white with the words Merry Christmas in black letters.
Holy shit.
She custom-made this card. She must have. No one makes black-and-white Christmas cards. But Mabel did. For me. And she must have snuck this into my suitcase when Charlotte invited her over last night.
I should wait till Christmas morning to open the gift, and I will. I swear I will. But I sit on the edge of the bed, two small pups staring up at me, as I peek at the card for now.
Dear Corbin,
This is just a small token of my appreciation for all that you’ve done for me. From the day you came to my rescue at the romance fair, to the day after that when you said yes to a wild plan to start a bakery, to every day since then.
It’s been quite a ride, hasn’t it? From the knitting club bets against us (ha, take that!), to paintbrushes (not to mention basting brushes), to a strawberry cookie jar, then love letters from another century, and, unexpectedly, a pickleball challenge.
I wouldn’t want to have done this with anyone else. And I can’t wait till we open another letter. That’s become the favorite part of my day.
Actually, it’s the second.
My real favorite part? The way you believe in me.
Thank you, and Merry Christmas!
Mabel
She’s not quite saying I’m the favorite part of her day. But it’s damn close.
38
DELIBERATE TEXTS
MABEL
My real Christmas is with my friends—Friendsmas, as Isla dubbed it a few years ago when she started it. This year we’re at her place two nights before Christmas. Rowan, the man I’m sure will propose to her any second, is out with his daughter, so tonight it’s just us—Isla, Skylar, Remy, Clementine, Trevyn, and me. We exchange silly gifts, blast Mariah Carey too loud, and drink spiked eggnog.