Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
We return to the front of the gazebo where Brady’s on stage, his eyes twinkling with confidence and mischief.
Good luck.
“I’ve heard your carols, but you haven’t heard ours,” he says, then takes his phone from his pocket, sets it on the stage to presumably record himself, then reaches for Iris’s hand.
Please.
But then he launches into a powerful rendition of “Joy to the World” with a voice that’s richer, deeper, and smoother than I’d expected.
What the hell?
The man is like one of the three tenors, and I do regret taking his bet. Also, because…she’s humming. Iris is simply humming, dropping in an occasional background ooh or aah to provide the subtlest harmony. Why didn’t I think of that? I could have hummed while Fable fa-la-la-la-la’d.
But he can sing and they can strategize and once again, the man has surprised me with what comes out of his mouth.
He’s annoyingly good as he belts out the tune like he’s a show-stopping Broadway star. When they finish, there’s no question who’s winning the caroling competition.
My fears are confirmed moments later when the mayor announces the judges committee has voted Aurora in third, Bibi and Hardick in second, and Brady and Iris in first place.
“Told you I was going to dom-i-nate,” Brady shouts, pumping his annoying fist.
“You sure did, babe,” Iris seconds, cheering him on. He snaps a victory selfie of the two of them.
I didn’t think it was possible to hate him more, but I do. Not only did he beat me at my own game, he used his very own words from Thanksgiving—the day Fable discovered him cheating. I hate that Brady’s a much more formidable competitor than I’d thought he would be. “I can’t believe it,” I mutter to Fable, then meet her gaze. “I won’t let him win the next one.”
Her smile is soft, a little placating. “You’re cute when you’re jealous—”
She doesn’t get to finish the thought though. Leo has found me in the crowd, and he claps me on the shoulder. “Mind if I steal the best man?” he asks Fable.
“Go ahead,” she says, then makes her way toward Josie and Wesley.
Leo nods to the edge of the square where a makeshift bar’s set up. “My cousin has a few talents. Singing’s one of them. Let me get you a scotch to make up for it.”
He’s the groom so I say yes, heading toward the towering ancient oak in the town square, where a bartender from the North Pole Nook mixes drinks at a red wooden cart. Leo asks for two glasses of scotch and a minute later, the man hands them to us. The warmth of the drink seeps through me, dissipating some of my irritation, but not much, since the competitiveness in me still burns. But it’s not my place to rain on Leo’s pre-wedding parade so I set my own feelings aside.
“Your big day is soon,” I say, lifting my glass in a toast. “Have I mentioned how happy I am for you?”
His smile is wide and genuine. “Thanks. And things are going well with Fable?”
I don’t quite squirm, but I come close. Even though I don’t want to tell him the truth—that it’s fake—neither do I want to lie. I weigh what to say, then it hits me. I don’t have to lie, exactly. “They’re going great.”
Last night was great. That’s true. This morning was great as well. The moment next to the gazebo was even greater.
“I’m happy for you then.” He pauses. “Do you think this could turn into something more…?”
What a good question.
Across the snowy square, I gaze at Fable for a long beat, picturing something beyond Christmas. Maybe in some other world, I would make pancakes with her in the morning and we’d say goodnight to my daughter together in the evening. We’d venture up here for the holidays. I’d come to the opening of her first jewelry shop, and she’d cheer for her favorite team from a suite.
And we’d curl up on the couch together next Christmas Eve, turn on some music, and look at the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree.
Before I fucked her under it.
I shake off those dirty and wonderful thoughts. I’m not equipped for that type of romance. For that type of trust. For all that uncertainty.
Except as my brain repeats those familiar refrains, I think about earlier when she remembered all the details of my favorite song. I think, too, about how she found it endearing that I can’t sing. I think about the way she interacts with my daughter. And I wonder for the first time ever if I could live with all this terrible, horrible uncertainty of a romance that makes my heart beat like crazy from one minute to the next when I’m near her.
Could I?
I owe Leo an answer though. I can only give a vague, “It’s hard to say.”