THAT EVENING, my mom pulls my dad away to give Jamie a break, and Hazel’s upstairs in her room, so it’s just Jamie and me in the living room, watching Elf. We’re drinking hot apple cider, a yearly tradition in our family, and the cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and star anise make our home smell amazing.
“Let’s make this at home,” Jamie says, and I melt. I love the way he says home like that.
I love that he flew out to Silver Falls.
I love hanging out with him, just sitting in the living room like this, even if I’m in sweatpants. He seems more content and relaxed than ever.
“Is this okay?” I ask, gesturing around us at the shabby living room. “We can go to a bar or something.”
Jamie nudges me. “This is exactly where I want to be.”
On screen, Will Ferrell jumps up and down in an elf costume, shrieking about how excited he is to meet Santa, and I laugh.
“My mom’s looking for a therapist,” Jamie says. I light up. “She is? That’s great.”
He nods with relief. “Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing at me. “That’s because of you, you know.”
“We don’t know that.”
“It is. She told me it was because of the conversation you had.” My throat closes up with emotion. “Really?”
He nods again, soft gaze traveling over my face. “Thank you.”
I want to climb into his lap and hug him. “I’m really glad, Jamie.
Seriously.”
“Me, too.”
His hand slips around mine and he gives it a squeeze. Something sweet and sparkly dances in my stomach, and I glance at his mouth. I can practically feel his lips against mine, demanding and unrelenting. His eyes darken, and pressure and warmth thrum between my legs.
“I want to give you your Christmas present,” he says suddenly, pulling his hand away, eyes darting to mine like he’s nervous. “Is that okay?”
“Of course.” I blink. “Yours isn’t ready.” He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
“I mean, it’s mostly ready. Ready enough to show you tonight.” I bite my lip, and now I’m nervous.
What if he hates it? What if it’s too much? My stomach thrashes with butterflies, like they’re trying to escape.
Jamie gives me a quick smile, slips his shoes on, and heads to his car. Moments later, he’s back with two boxes—one huge and one about the size of a shoebox. He has to turn the big present sideways to get it in the door. They’re wrapped beautifully in bright paper and shiny red bows.
“Oh god.” I stare at them in horror. They’re going to blow my gift out of the water. “Can I go first?”
He shakes his head with a laugh as he clears the coffee table off and sets it down. “No. I’m nervous.” The corner of his mouth curves up as he hands the smaller gift to me. “You first.”
I blow a long breath out and study the present while nerves tap-dance in my stomach. Jamie raises his eyebrows and looks at his watch in an exaggerated way, and I laugh.
“Stop it,” I tell him before untying the bow. His knee bounces while I open it, and when I pull the lid off, I burst into a big grin. “You got me my own jersey?”
He studies my face with a funny look. “You like it?”
I pull the navy and white jersey out of the box, turning it to read the back. STREICHER is stitched in bold white lettering, and my body hums with something pleased, proud, and possessive.
“You don’t have to wear my name on your back,” he says quietly, watching me carefully. “We can take that part off.”
“Don’t you dare.” I hold his gaze as my insides melt into a puddle. “I want to wear your name.”
“Okay.” The corners of his mouth hitch, and his eyes warm. “I want you to, too.”
I can’t tell him the truth—that wearing his jersey, having his name on me, makes me feel like we’re so much more than we are, and that I love it. I love every inch of this present.
He tilts his chin at the bigger box. “Next.”
Curiosity fires around in my brain as I unwrap it with care. The size of the box is a lot like—
Nope. I don’t even want to get my hopes up.
“I hope it’s a motorcycle.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him.
His eyes gleam like he’s enjoying this, watching me open presents he gave me. I don’t know what to make of that. It makes me feel special and cared for, and there’s another hard thump in my chest. I pull the last of the wrapping away, and my breath catches.
“Jamie,” I whisper, staring at the box. My throat feels tight. His finger brushes the back of my hand playfully. “Open it.”
I press my lips into a flat line, wavering, before I flip the lid off.
Yep. There it is, but instead of in the front window of the guitar store, it’s sitting on the table.
It’s so beautiful, but it’s more than that. This guitar is something I thought I couldn’t have, and yet, here it is. My eyes well up with emotion and I blink fast to clear them.
“It’s too much.” I can’t look at him. If I look at him, I’ll cry. Or kiss him. I’m not sure.
“It’s not too much.”
“It’s too expensive.” My feelings for him grow by the second, expanding like a balloon.
“Pippa.” His voice is firm, leaving no wiggle room. “I’d buy you every guitar in the city if I thought you’d let me.”
Shit. This guy’s going to break my goddamned heart.
When I finally look at him, his expression is so proud, and I know he’s telling the truth about buying every guitar he could.
Shit.
“Saying thank you feels like not even close to enough. You’re spoiling me.” I run my fingers over his name on the jersey.
He shrugs his big shoulders. “So let me spoil you.”
“Thank you,” I say, leaning forward to hug him, and his arms loop around me. I lean into his shoulder, inhaling his warm, spicy scent. One of his hands threads into my hair, the other holding me tight against him.
“You are so welcome, songbird.” I feel his low voice against my chest, and I wish we could stay like this forever. “Alright, time to take it for a spin.”
I pull back and study the guitar. “It’s too nice to play.”
“No way. Don’t you have to break guitars in?” His mouth quirks. I burst out laughing. “That takes years.”
He gestures at the guitar. “Better get started, then.”
Nerves shimmer through me. I’m hesitating, but it’s now or never. “I’d like to give you your present first.” From the side table, I grab my phone and open a folder, sharing it with him.
His hand brushes my lower back. “You didn’t have to get me anything, Pippa.”
“I knew you’d say that.” His phone pings in his pocket, and I nod at him with a smile. “That’s from me. Open it.”
When he opens the email, his laugh is surprised and pleased. The sound melts into my heart. His face lights up while he scrolls through the professional photos I had taken of Daisy at the dog beach, and his eyes are bright.
“I’m having them printed,” I explain. “I was going to frame one and put it in the apartment.”
He grins big at the one of Daisy mid-jump, tongue hanging out with wild eyes. “These are amazing. I love them.”
He lands on one of me and Daisy.
A flash of embarrassment hits me, and my face warms. “I wasn’t going to print the ones with me in them. That’s the entire folder, so there are going to be some extras in there.”
He’s still smiling at the one of me and Daisy. “I love it.” I bite my lip, nervous about the next gift.
“There’s something else,” I tell him, pulling out my phone again. My hands are shaking. I’ve never done something like this.
Jamie’s hand covers my knee, and the warmth of his big hand bleeds through the fabric, pulling me back to the present. He’s smiling at me, that soft, handsome smile that makes me want to kiss him.
“I wrote an album,” I blurt out, and his eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
I nod. “Yeah. I wrote an album for you. I mean—” I tilt my head back and forth. “I wrote it for me too, so I hope it doesn’t suck that we have to share this gift, but you encouraged me and made me feel like I could do it, so I kept writing because I wanted to have a full collection of songs to show you.”
His eyes glint with pride. “Show me.” I huff a laugh at his tone.
“Now, Pippa.”
I laugh again, opening another folder on my phone. “Hold on a second.
So impatient.”
His hand hasn’t moved from my knee, and his thumb strokes back and forth as I share the videos with him. I would normally record them as audio only, but I liked the way the light looked in the living room during golden hour, and then I just left the video running. After I was done, I cut the full songs into their own clips.
Jamie’s phone lights up, and a moment later, my voice rings out in the living room. His mouth curls into a pleased smile again, and he tilts a glance at me.
“You wrote an album,” he says softly.
My chest is bursting with pressure and giddiness and disbelief. “I wrote an album.”
He shakes his head in wonder, still watching me while my song plays. “Fucking incredible. I’m so proud of you.”
I smile down at my hands in my lap. “Thank you.” My throat feels thick as I swallow, reaching for my new guitar. When I lift it up, my heart pounds.
There’s something perfect about this guitar—its weight, the way the neck feels in my hand, the curve of the body over my thigh as I settle it in my lap.
“This guitar is my soulmate,” I tell Jamie, and he smiles. “You going to play the rest of the album for me?”
“If that’s okay with you.”
He leans back against the armrest of the couch, facing me, tucking his hands behind his head as I play. I’m playing these songs, and Jamie’s
smiling at certain lyrics because he knows exactly what I’m singing about. Over the past few months, Jamie’s become one of my closest friends, and playing guitar for him, singing for him, it feels intimate and special.
I finish the song about revenge, the one I sent him a few weeks ago, and my fingers hover over the strings.
The only song left is the sexy one. He lifts an eyebrow in challenge, like he can see my hesitation.
I should end it here. I should call it a night and go up to bed. I really should. It’s about Jamie, and there’s no way he isn’t going to see that.
Something risky and bold thrills through me, and I start playing the song.
Some of the lyrics are, um, really specific. That’s my favorite part about songwriting, how specific some of the lyrics are, about eating cherry chocolate ice cream and walking past your old high school or something, and you can totally picture yourself inside the song.
I’ll sit between your legs while you make me shake against you. Make my body feel new things, we both want to.
Facing me, Jamie stiffens, and his eyes go hazy. I stop playing.
“Songbird,” he warns, lifting a brow. There’s a delicious slant to his cruel mouth, and my face feels hot.
You could cut the tension in this room with a knife. “We should end it there,” I mutter.
“Not a fucking chance.” His voice is thick.
My gaze drops to Jamie’s lap. He’s fully hard, erection straining against the fabric of his sweats. Heat pulses low in my stomach, but I continue playing the song.
“You wrote that one for me?” he asks when it ends. He won’t take his eyes off my face.
I nod. Our gazes hold, and tension cracks between us. Jamie’s gaze darkens, and his jaw tightens as I lick my bottom lip. Pressure gathers between my legs, and my skin feels warm. I want him so badly.
His eyes pin me with determination. “That was the best Christmas gift I’ve ever gotten.”
“Me, too,” I breathe.
A beat passes where we just stare at each other, but Jamie snaps his gaze away. “I should go to bed.”
No, I want to scream, but instead, I nod. “Good night.”
“Good night.” He stands, adjusts himself, and heads upstairs without another word.
I sit on the couch for a few moments after, feeling hot and jittery, full of energy, before I turn out the lights and head up to my old bedroom, carrying my Christmas presents. In my room, I hold out the jersey and smile.
I love it. I’m going to wear it to every game, and I can already imagine Jamie’s smile when he turns around and sees me behind the net, wearing it with pride.
