Page 29 of When There Was You
An hour later, I drive to Mick’s mom’s house.
Mick greets me at the door and pulls me into his arms, murmuring “Merry Christmas,” before claiming my lips.
He flashes me a tender smile, but there’s no missing his tired eyes and the presence of something heavier. This entire situation with Remy is stressful—and only getting worse—and he’s mired in it whether he wants to be or not.
I follow him inside and give his mom an exuberant holiday greeting, handing her a loaf of gingerbread I baked yesterday and a bottle of white wine.
She wraps me in a hug. “So nice to see you, Jacqui.”
“You too. Thank you for having me. The house looks lovely,” I say, taking in the festive decorations and charming, understated tree. Every item matches her personal aesthetic, which I love. A mixture of seasonal spices perfumes the air, along with the earthy aroma from the fir.
Mick and I claim one sofa and his mom takes the chair across from us. I sip on spiced apple cider as we make small talk. We chat about school and my post-graduation plans—still very undecided—and she offers helpful insights.
“Mom,” Mick says, cutting her off thirty minutes later.
She eyes him quizzically.
“If Jacqui doesn’t get to open her presents soon, she’s going to combust.”
I scoff. “Am not.”
His eyes find mine, and I’m totally busted. “Iknow you, remember?”
I purse my lips, then chuckle.
A genuine smile crosses his mom’s face as she excuses herself and disappears down the hallway, I think to give us some privacy.
Mick’s not wrong. The gift giving is my favorite part of Christmas, and last year was incredible when?—
I screech those thoughts to a halt…Ireallydon’t want to think about how everything’s changed since then. Instead, I gaze at Mick, whose grin lights up his face, the one I never tire of looking at, the one my heart responds to with actual palpitations. Goddamn, I love him. More than anyone or anything in my life.
He saunters over to the tree, where our gifts to each other lay scattered, picks one up, and places a weighty box carefully into my lap. Excitement thrums through me as I speculate about what it might be.
I rip through the paper and ribbon with a big grin plastered on my face. Inside are books, and not just any old books, but the kind a writer needs.The Elements of Styleby Strunk and White. The spiral boundAssociated Press Stylebook, an essential text for journalists.The Chicago Manual of Style, the other must-have for writers. And a special edition ofWriter’s Digestmagazine.
My eyes lift to meet his. “Mick…these are perfect. And helpful. How did you even know…”
“I can’t take credit. My mom said they would be useful.”
I’m touched, the warmth of his never-ending support and encouragement bowling me over once again. “Thank you so much.” Bridging the small gap between us, I press my lips to his.
I set the books and magazine on the coffee table and walk over to the tree, getting on all fours to reach what I need.
“That’s one hell of a view,” Mick says.
I shake my ass for good measure and glance at him overmy shoulder. Grabbing his gifts, I rejoin him on the sofa, totally stoked to watch his reaction.
He’s genuinely delighted by the book of nautical knots.
“Not that you aren’t already quite proficient with some of these…” We grin at each other as he opens another gift, which is about wooden boat design, something I thought he’d love.
“Oh, cool.” He flips the pages, pleased with what he sees. “Baby, this is fantastic. Have I told you how much I think about building my own?”
“No, but it seems right in your wheelhouse, or should I say boathouse?”
He glances back at the book in his hands, his expression delighted. “I can’t wait to read this. Thank you.” He pulls me closer, grazing my temple with his lips.
Before I can give him one more, he stands and retrieves another package. My breath hitches when I see the size. It’s small…ring sized. I don’t dare hope. And that’s crazy thinking anyway.
