Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
I headed along the path we’d shoveled earlier that morning to unlock the front door.
“Let me guess…you just happened to be in town?”
“Yeah, right,” Martin snorted and gestured at the wreath. “Nice wreath. Oh…wow. This place is kind of nice. If I remember correctly, there’s a fireplace in your office. Let me thaw out while you pack your bags.”
I grabbed his elbow. “Whoa. What are you talking about?”
“The contract, Cam. We need you in LA to sign your name on the dotted line and pose for some promo pics the studio wants to release before Christmas. It’s time-sensitive. They need one or two days, max. You can be back on the twenty-fifth or the twenty-sixth and spend the new year in solitude writing your heart out. I can’t take no for an answer. Mega millions are at stake. Your fans are gonna go wild.” Martin paused for air, noting the mistletoe still hanging above the living room doorway with wide eyes as he ushered himself into my domain. “Oh, my God. There’s a fucking tree in here.”
I opened and closed my mouth like a fish out of water, unsure where to begin.
“Uh…”
“You’re leaving.” Joe’s deep timbre moved through me, scraping like sandpaper over a newly closed wound.
“No, I’m—no.”
He wrinkled his nose and glanced out the lace curtains. And just like that, I felt time shift and the past few weeks slip away from me like a dream.
When he met my eyes again, I felt the distance gather. It was a physical sensation—like being punched in the gut.
“That’s your real life, Cam,” he said softly. “You have to go.”
My real life.
Yeah, that was definitely a punch in the gut.
My real life wasn’t real. It was contracts and words and so much time alone. Fuck, I didn’t want to be alone anymore. I wanted to be here. With Joe.
Joe, who was looking at me as though he’d just remembered that he didn’t know me. I wanted to shake him and tell him to stop it, but he was already walking to the door. He mumbled something about the Santa suit and how much time it took to get stuffing just right while I pursed my lips and frowned hard enough to give myself a headache.
“I’ll tell Martin to chill out here. I’ll see you at bingo and—”
“No. I don’t want to say good-bye twice.” His smile was a little wobbly as he leaned in to kiss me. “Maybe I’ll see you after Christmas or in the new year or—”
“Hey!” I followed him onto the porch. “Wait up. We’re not saying good-bye, Joe. Even if I have to go to LA, I’ll be back and—you don’t want that, do you?”
“Of course, I do. But…that’s the problem.”
“Huh?”
“I want things I shouldn’t want from you.” He tugged his cap off in frustration and drew in a deep breath. “Don’t worry. I won’t expect a phone call on Christmas or—”
“I want those things too, Joe. I want you,” I whispered.
His nostrils flared as he met my gaze. “I know, but…I don’t know if wanting is enough.”
“It is,” I insisted. “We can discuss—”
“The jet will be ready this afternoon,” Martin announced from the doorway. “We’ll take a helicopter to Burlington and hop the jet there, so…chop-chop!”
Joe squeezed my hand and stepped aside with a short nod. “Go on, Cam.”
I started to go after him, but Martin was talking again, and I couldn’t make sense of this new twist.
I knew what I wanted. It was right here.
Yet with every step he took, it was slipping away and the tunnel was closing around me. I could feel myself being sucked into a void of fast-moving plans with deadlines and contracts and words like “millions” that were supposed to impress me, but damn, it sounded so lonely. And dark.
The scariest part wasn’t the darkness itself, but the sense that I belonged there.
Joe
“Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas.”
I hiked the bag of presents over my shoulder, waving like I was on a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade instead of lumbering into the town hall for the annual holiday bingo party. The crowd cheered me on cue. Of course, they did. Everyone over thirty had been drinking spiked eggnog while raucously covering their places on holiday-themed cards with holly-embossed chips for hours. They didn’t notice my lackluster greeting and didn’t seem to care that I hadn’t bothered to whiten my beard or that the stuffing in my suit was more pronounced on one side.
Okay, my mom noticed. And maybe Lena too. They exchanged worried glances while kids gathered around me. I blocked out the noise and did what I was supposed to—I read a story, gave out presents, took a hundred photos, and tried my best to avoid my mother’s hawklike stare.
It didn’t work.
Mom pulled me into a corner at the first opportunity. “Where’s Mr. Warren?” she asked, fussing with my hat.