Page 121 of On His Mind

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asks in between kisses.

“Very,” I whisper.

She pulls back. “That’s not what I mean.”

I look at her lips.

“The soup’s going cold. I cooked it for you.”

I brush her hair out of her face and nod. “Okay.”

She gets off me, and I deflate. “Come on.”

We walk downstairs hand in hand. I make a bowl of soup while she hugs me from behind. I sit at my spot at the table and pull her onto my lap.

“It’s good.”

“I know,” she smiles.

The room falls silent to my slurping.

“What’re your plans for Christmas?” she asks.

I look at her.

She swallows. “I was hoping you weren’t working.”

I shake my head. “They’re closed on Christmas.”

She rubs her fingertips up and down the back of my neck. “Okay.” She rests her head on my shoulder and whispers, “So, we can spend it together?”

I kiss her once and then twice. “Yes.” I kiss her again.Of course.

Christmas morning, I wake up at Hawthorne with her in my arms. She’s snuggled against my chest with her leg over mine. We left the curtains open because it started snowing last night, and right now, there’s snow coming down. I run my fingers through her hair gently.

There’s a small Christmas tree downstairs from Walmart. We put it up two days ago together. The guys didn’t want to buy a real tree this year because last year it was a pain to get rid of. We left it up for far too long, and all the needles fell off.

She joked that Santa Claus isn’t coming, but I snuck out of the room early this morning to put her gift under our little tree.

She stirs, moaning a sweet sound.

I kiss her. “Good morning, Penelope. Merry Christmas.”

She hums. “Merry Christmas, Percy.” Then she blinks her eyes open and smiles. “It’s Christmas!”

“It’s snowing.” I point at the window.

She sits up and adjusts the shirt she’s sleeping in. My Camden Wolves tee. “And it’s snowing?” She huffs, falling onto me. Shepresses her cheek against my chest, and I run my fingers down her spine.

“Want coffee?” I ask.

She nods. “Yes. Really hot coffee.”

I wrap my blanket around her shoulders. “Come on.”

We walk down the stairs, and she stops midway. “I told you not to get me anything.”

I glance at the Christmas tree. “That?” I question, shaking my head. “That’s not from me. It’s from Santa.”