The 14 Days of Christmas

I shuffled my chair closer to him and leaned my head on his shoulder. “No one gets divorced over a music box. They get divorced because they’re incompatible. That can show itself in lots and lots of different ways.”

The music stopped.

He nodded but didn’t say anything. He just picked up the box, turned it over, and wound up the mechanism at the bottom. The box began to play again. I couldn’t bring to mind the name of the tune, only that it was familiar. It was a forlorn melody made a little sweeter because of the high, twinkly pitch.

“You think it’s weird to replace something for someone all these years later, especially if it has such horrible memories attached to it?”

“I suppose you have to ask yourself why she was so upset when it was destroyed. It must have been very important to her. And I think if you, her son, were to give her another one after all these years, you’ve given her back a lovely memory. And it shows that you turned out to be a kind, thoughtful, good man. I think that’s a wonderful association for that music box.”

“Maybe,” he said, still not convinced. “There’s no rush anyway. It doesn’t have to be this year that I give it to her. Probably best not to do it at Christmas anyway. She knows I don’t celebrate and have so many bad memories of the season that it would probably taint the gift.”

“Or wipe the slate clean,” I suggested.

He didn’t reply. We sat in silence for a few minutes until the music stopped again. Sebastian closed the lid and rewrapped the box and tucked it back in his pocket. The melancholy mood seemed to lift as soon as the trinket was out of sight.

“Is it wrong to toast with hot chocolate?” he asked, his mood brightening.

“Never, but especially not when there’s brandy in it.” I held up my cup.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, chinking his snowman mug to mine.

For a half-second, I allowed my mind to wander. Would Sebastian be here when my decorations came down? Would he help me put them up next year and then clink our hot chocolates at a job well done?

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

I smiled, pleased he cared but completely unwilling to answer. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m wondering whether or not your bedding is festive.”

I slid off his lap and held out my hand. “You’re in for a treat.”

Seventeen

Sebastian

If I’d been thinking clearly, I wouldn’t be here tonight, but something drew me to Celia. Most men would have been attracted by her near-constant smile and her infectious, sunny energy. That, along with her perfectly round breasts and glossy, hip-length hair. But that wasn’t just it for me. I was drawn to the bits of self-doubt she hid under the smile; the way when she spoke to someone, she focused all her attention on them as if they were the most important person she’d ever met; the almost too-blue eyes that told you exactly what she was feeling on the inside, no matter what her smile said. The curve of her back, the smooth skin of her neck, her delicate fingers and determined drive . . .

I really liked everything about her.

“Sebastian?” she asked, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Is it too much?” She glanced surreptitiously at her duvet cover, which boasted Christmas trees and snow-covered houses, and the fairy lights strung across her headboard.

I shook my head. That ex of hers had obviously done a number on her. “I don’t care what’s on the bed, Celia,” I said, pulling her toward me and lifting the hem of her pajama top, pushing it over her head. “I care who’s in it.” I dipped, placing a kiss on her collarbone and then on the other side of her bra strap, on her shoulder. Had there been any place I hadn’t kissed her? There shouldn’t be. I made a mental note to cover every part of her body from ankle to forehead with my lips.

She slid her arms around my neck and pressed her delicate fingertips into my skin.

“It’s cold,” she said with a shiver.

“Then I suggest we warm up.” I slid her pajama bottoms over her hips and down her thighs. I held them as she stepped out, then placed a kiss on her stomach. I drank in the scent of fir and heat. I pulled out my wallet from my jeans, put it on the bedside table, and undressed as Celia watched, shifted her weight from one leg to another—in either cold or anticipation. Or both.

“I’m pleased you came over tonight,” she said.

I took a step toward her and cupped the back of her neck in my hands. “I’m pleased too.” I pressed my lips to hers and her tongue pushed between my lips. I couldn’t help but groan at her determination. Her need.