Page 117 of Dream Chaser

I sank the blades into the strip of glossy packing tape running cleanly across the top seam. It resisted at first, stretching slightly, then it gave way with a satisfying ripping sound. The tape peeled back unevenly, pulling up thin fibers of cardboard with it. I pressed my thumbs into the seam and pushed.

The top flaps loosened, then sprang apart with a soft pop. Carefully, I moved the layers of pink tissue paper aside, then pulled out a package wrapped in Christmas-themed gift paper. Inside were curtains that seemed familiar. Heart beating fast, I took out more things—candles in my favorite scents. Pretty ceramic teacups with gold trim and a glass teapot. Wineglasses. Satin bed sheets that matched my bedroom.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Scar, this is… I have all of this stuff on my Pinterest board. Come on, open the other box.”

She took the scissors from my hand. Cardboard ripped, then she handed me a Christmas card. I flipped it open with shaky fingers.

Black ink stretched across the page.

For your home.

Merry Christmas, Nova.

Alejandro

I traced each word with my fingertip, oscillating between tenderness and confusion. He didn’t have to do this, but he did. The question was why?

“He doesn’t want a relationship, you say?” Scarlett’s lips tilted up in a smirk. “All of this right here tells me that might not be true.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Alejandro

December

Nova: I got your gifts. Thank you so much. You absolutely didn’t have to. Merry Christmas, Ale.

Ale.

My thumb hovered over the screen as I tried to come up with a reply for a hundredth time. Nothing seemed good.

You deserve it? True, but unoriginal.

I miss you? Also true.

I wish you weren’t my employee? No lies there.

I set my phone on the kitchen table, then my ears caught the shuffle of my father’s slippers on the tiles, and I straightened, taking a sip of coffee.

“Buenos días.” Dad patted my shoulder, then headed for the percolator on the stove. I’d given my parents a state-of-the-art coffee maker for Christmas last year, but they still used this one most of the time, old habits and all that.

Dad poured himself a cup. The Sport Union Madrid shirt I’d given him two days ago stretched across his broad shoulders, number seven and Rivera on the back. Javier Rivera, Asher’s best friend, had signed it for him, and the rest of the team had plastered their signatures on tons of memorabilia for him and my brother.

It’d made their Christmas. Seeing them so giddy had made mine, temporarily erasing the sadness from how I’d left things with Nova.

He took a sip and sat at the table across from me. Only the tick of the clock above the kitchen table broke the early morning quiet.

“¿Qué tal todo?” he finally asked. How’s everything?

“Todo bien. Trabajando.” All good, working—true, but not all of the truth. The rest of it sat like a stone on my chest. The only person who lifted some of that weight was thousands of miles away, hopefully enjoying my gifts and maybe even thinking about me.

Dad took another drink, humming, sharp eyes studying me over the rim. “How’s the agency?”

“Great.” I set my cup on the table. “Asher’s win gave us a lot of publicity. We signed with a few young athletes.”

“We watched the award ceremony,” Dad said. “That kid’s a hard worker. He’s here, isn’t he? Tell him to come over for dinner.”

Asher was at his grandmother’s with Kaia, soaking in the offseason’s calm before heading back to training in January.