Page 47 of Once Upon A Christmas Song

I looked away because I needed to make sure not a single stray tear touched my cheek.

“And you?”

When I turned to look at him, I saw that he was waiting, ready, girding himself for what I was going to say.

“I know it’s been a long time, Chris, and you need sex and⁠—”

“I need good sex, the connection kind, not meaningless encounters,” I rasped. “You know that.”

His smile came slowly, and the way it spread and made his eyes warm, it was hard not to smile back. “I do know that. Thank you for reminding me.”

“But that could change,” I argued as he closed the distance between us. “Someone could walk in here tomorrow and⁠—”

“Nobody’s walking in here,” he said, reaching me and sliding his hand around the side of my neck, his thumb tracing over my jaw. “There’s only me, and that’s because of number three.”

“What’s number three?”

“Here,” he said, passing me his phone, both of his hands free to slide over my shoulders.

Number three on his stupid phone said that no one could love me like he could, or more than he could, because no one loved me more than he did.

“You love me more than anyone?”

“Yes,” he whispered, hands slipping around the sides of my neck. “And you can’t debate that with me because you know it’s true.”

I stared into his eyes.

“You have to believe me when I tell you I’m different. I feel it, and I wish you could too,” he said, voice straining. “But I will be here, and I’ll only go away for short amounts of time and then fly right back home to you.”

I shook my head, trying to step free, but he held on so I couldn’t.

“Christopher, I know I used to be an idiot, but not anymore.”

“You were young,” I countered, because I could never stand to hear anyone cut themselves down when whatever the failing was just needed the hindsight of age. “You still are. Give yourself a break and move on.”

He growled softly, and I couldn’t help but grin. The man had always mesmerized me, and that hadn’t changed. “I don’t wanna move on, Chris. You’re the one.”

“After two⁠—”

“Yes, I know, after two years. God, you’re like a broken record,” he said, letting me go and starting to pace.

“And it’s annoying, isn’t it?”

“You have no idea.”

“Then why waste your time?”

“The sarcasm is doing things for me.”

“How about you just work here and we don’t talk. Imagine how easy that would be.”

“But I want to talk to you. I want to do everything with you.”

I shook my head. “It’s too late.”

“No such thing.”

“Listen, you––”