The Plight Before Christmas(88)

“The crap I gave you about your well-being. I really wasn’t trying to control you. That came from a place of fear.”

“I could tell. Though I really hated you for it sometimes, I could tell.”

“I just wanted you safe.”

“You acted the same when I flew off a cliff,” she laughs lightly.

“Can’t exactly blame me for that.”

“I don’t.” I run my fingers lightly through the space between hers.

“It wasn’t all bad, Eli. Not at all. We had something really special. I can’t deny it.”

I look up as she threads our fingers and squeezes.

“I don’t want to be bitter about any of it, but—”

“Seeing me again brought the painful parts back too.”

“Yeah, it did,” she nods.

“Same.”

She slowly shakes her head, and I can’t resist the draw. She’s sitting too close, smelling too good, looking too beautiful. Acting on it like the greedy bastard I am, I lean in and press a slow kiss to her lips. When I pull away, her eyes are pooling with need.

“Sorry, I just really wanted to do that in case you don’t give me another chance to.”

“Please stop doing that,” she sighs.

“Okay.” I swallow. “Is it because you don’t want me to?”

“No, it’s because I want you to way too much.”

Hope blooms in my chest. “You have my word that I won’t do it again unless you ask me to. But it won’t be easy.”

Her lips lift. “I remember when I had to beg for it.”

“That’s only because…” I falter, knowing that once we get into this, I won’t want to stop confessing.

“Because what?”

“I’ll tell you when you aren’t guzzling wine with your sisters.”

“Okay.” She nods toward the door. “I better get these to them before they start wondering where I am.”

“They know exactly where you are because they’re staring through the window.”

“What?” Whitney turns just as Erin and Serena duck out of sight, and a thud sounds on the porch, followed by an “oww, shit!”

“You bitches!” Whitney hollers and turns back to me, wide-eyed and grinning. “Did they see us kiss?”

“Yep,” I say without an ounce of shame. “I made sure of it.”

“You’re a real shit.”

“Worth it.”

She shakes her head as I pull her sleeves down and warm her hand between mine. “You should put gloves on.” I study her small hand against mine and feel her eyes on my profile.

“Why didn’t you marry, Eli?”

I look up.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. The one time I knew he was getting close to asking, I broke up with him. I knew I wouldn’t say yes. I felt terrible. You?”

“I’ve done a few long-term relationships but never once felt compelled to propose. The closest I got to something real was with my friend Evie. She knew early on we weren’t going to get there, so she ended it. Instead, we became the best of friends. I was the best man at her wedding.”

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah. She knows about you.”

She gives me a faint smile before we share a long silence, our hands brushing.

“Did you really skydive?”

“Yeah,” I grin when she looks up. “I thought of you the whole day.”

“That’s so cool.”

“It was, it was so cool. I’ll take you if you still want to go.”

She gives a look that conveys she’s unsure if the invitation is real, which doesn’t settle well at all with me.

She drops her gaze. “Eli?”

“Yes, Whitney?”

She looks down as I lift and warm her other hand between my palms.

“Nothing. Goodnight.”

Pulling her hand from mine, she starts to gather the mini plastic wine bottles from the mattress. Unwilling to let a second of earned intimacy or her undivided attention pass, I decide to drop another truth bomb.

“You know, I was never a Casanova. You just refused to believe me.”

She snorts derisively. “Sure, you weren’t.”

“I lost my virginity my senior year of college to an insane, mouthy, know it all with killer legs who swore she had my number.”





I gape at Eli as he sits propped against the wall, looking utterly devastating in a form-fitting thermal shirt, pinstriped pajama pants, his crystal blue eyes surreal, his words even more so.

“What did you just say?”

“You were my first and only in college, Whitney.”

“You can’t be serious. Eli, t-t-that’s not true,” I stutter out, sobering considerably.

Floored, I resume my seat next to him, white-knuckling the wine bottles in my hand.

“I was crazy about you, so I took my time with you. I got to know you inside and out. I explored and studied you, memorized you, so I knew exactly how you wanted to be touched.”

“But that can’t be—”

He shakes his head in annoyance as my mind tries to refute it.