Page 282 of Playing With Fire

Because I've spent my whole life falling in love with fictional men.

And somehow, the real one has managed to ruin me for all of them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

DELANEY

There's something about Christmas Eve at my parents' house that makes me feel like I'm twelve years old again.

Maybe it's the smell of cinnamon and brown sugar drifting through the kitchen. Or the familiar sound of Dad arguing with Declan about hockey from the living room. Or the fact that Mom still insists on hanging the same crooked wooden ornaments we made in elementary school.

Whatever it is, I love it.

Even if my brother has already eaten half the cookies I spent two hours decorating.

“Declan Beckett, if you touch another one of those, I'm going to break your fingers.”

He pauses with a gingerbread man halfway to his mouth.

“You're awfully violent for someone who reads love stories.”

“I read other things, too. Suspense, murder mysteries, thrillers. So don't give me any ideas.”

I snatch the cookie from his hand.

“Hey!” He grins.

I bite back a smile, but the mention of love stories makes me think about the words that somehow have become chapters and now almost half a book in my little pink notebook in Chicago.

Bishop still doesn't know I write romance. Not because I'm deliberately keeping it from him. It's just always been my thing. My little corner of the world where I can put everything I'm feeling onto a page without having to explain any of it to anyone.

Avery knows, of course. And a few people at work. Now even Beau Montgomery knows I'm writing a book, which still feels a little unreal.

But telling Bishop is different. He knows me better than almost anyone, and somehow that makes the thought of letting him read my words even more terrifying, especially when some of those words were inspired by him.

I'll tell him. Eventually, I just want to be ready.

God, I've missed this.

It's been almost three months since I moved to Chicago, and while I've been home a couple of times, there's something different about being here for Christmas.

Mom stands at the counter in her favorite red apron, stirring something in a saucepan while she hums along to the Christmas music playing from the little radio above the refrigerator.

The kitchen looks almost exactly the way it did when I was growing up. White cabinets, green countertops, and hardwood floors Dad refinished himself.

Declan and Bishop have offered to buy my parents a new house more times than I can count.

Mom refuses.

She says a house is just lumber and nails until you fill it with memories.

And this one has more than enough to last a lifetime.

“Laney, sweetheart, can you grab the serving platter from the cabinet?”

“Sure.”

I reach into the cupboard above the refrigerator.