Page 17 of Holiday Hideaway
“Afraid not. And don’t bother suggesting we watch television, because your uncle was too cheap to pay for cable.” Tilly pointed at the clock radio on the mantel. “We could be positively old fashioned and listen to some Christmas music.”
He smiled in a way he hadn’t when he was telling her about Vanessa. “That’d be nice.”
She got up and switched the radio on.
Bing Crosby was crooning “White Christmas,” and before he knew it, George found himself humming along.
“I wish you’d sing,” Tilly said impulsively. “That’s how I figured out it was you the other day, when you were singing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem.’ I recognized that baritone, from all those years ago in glee club.”
“Come on,” George said, his cheeks reddening.
“It’s true. Please? Just a few bars?”
He hesitated, then sat up a little straighter, opened his mouth, and sang. After a few notes, Tilly joined in, knowing her voice wasn’t a match for his but singing anyway, just for the enjoyment of harmonizing, something she hadn’t done since her high school days. It felt surprisingly delicious.
When the song ended, she clapped wildly.
“That was kind of fun,” he said, suddenly shy. “I’ve haven’t sung in front of anyone else in years.”
“Really? Does your fiancée know what a gorgeous voice you have?”
“I’m strictly a sing-along-alone-in-the-car kind of guy these days,” he said.
She hoped he’d keep on singing now, but when the next song was a version of Alvin and the Chipmunks singing “Christmas Don’t Be Late,” the mood was broken. She stood and switched off the radio.
He drained his wineglass and barely managed to stifle a yawn. Tilly followed suit.
“You don’t have to sleep in that chair and watch over me tonight,” he said.
“It’s no big deal,” Tilly told him, eyeing his crutches. “If you got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and fell or something, I’d feel awful. I’ll just bring a sleeping bag downstairs and stretch out in front of the fire. It’ll be fun. Like an adult sleepover.”
George watched while Tilly burrowed into her nest of quilts and sleeping bag. She’d come downstairs dressed in a long-sleeved thermal undershirt and flannel pajama bottoms adorned with dogs in Santa hats. Smoosh curled up beside her, tucking his nose into her armpit, and George found himself wishing he could trade places with the lucky old dog.
Think of something else,George told himself, and soon he was humming “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” and Tilly was humming along, too, until her breathing started to slow and her eyelids fluttered and closed.
She looked strikingly pretty in the dim glow of firelight, her face at rest, her light-brown hair splayed out across the pillow. Watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest as she dozed off was an oddly intimate act, and he felt briefly guilty about such an invasion of her privacy, until he considered thatshe’d been watching and listening to him since the day he’d arrived here.
Tilly wasn’t still for long. She turned on her right side, then, moments later, on her left. She flung an arm over her head, then scrunched it under a pillow. At some point, she turned again, and the quilt she’d been snuggling under slid off her torso. Without thinking, George grabbed a crutch, hobbled over to where she slept, and was leaning down to cover her up again when Smoosh bared his teeth and let out a low growl. Tilly’s eyes flew open. “What the ...?”
She abruptly sat up, throwing the quilt aside, and, in the act, knocked the crutch out from under him, sending George tumbling on top of her.
He floundered helplessly, arms flailing, his casted leg getting tangled in the quilt. Smoosh was on him now, having decided this was a fun game instead of an attempted assault, wagging his tail and enthusiastically licking the back of George’s head and neck.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, his face inches from hers. She smelled nice, like shampoo and flowery soap. “I didn’t mean ...”
Tilly was laughing now—howling, really—so hard she couldn’t speak.
“Stay still,” she said finally, putting a hand to his chest and gently rolling George onto his back. “Smoosh, stop.” The dog rested on his haunches and gave his mistress a quizzical look.
She glanced down at George, whose face was turning purple with embarrassment, and pointed at his ankle. “Are you hurt?”
“Just my pride,” he said.
Tilly scrambled to her feet and leaned forward, grasping both of George’s hands. “Come on. Do you think you can stand?”
“Never mind,” he said with a groan. “Just leave me here to wither and die of humiliation.”
“No way,” Tilly replied. “You’re not dying on my watch. Take it slow. Let me do the heavy lifting.”
