Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

December 25, 8:10 am

NESSA

I can feel the sun before I see it. It’s so cozy here, cocooned in the warmth of blankets and…my eyes fly open, and I remember where I am. Snuggled up on the couch with Hot New Guy—Jack—spooning me. And that hard object pressed against my back is his?—

“Merry Christmas!” I shout, leaping up from the couch.

Jack startles awake, rubbing his eyes. He opens the left one, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. His dark hair is a spiky mess, and there’s a hint of stubble on his jaw.

“What?” I ask. “Isn’t this what you do on Christmas morning? Wake up early to open all your presents?”

“Not this early.” He props himself up on his elbow. “And not before coffee.”

“Power’s still out—so I can’t help with the coffee. But we do have presents!” I hold my hand out, presenting the stockings we filled for each other last night.

“Are you always this peppy in the morning?” he asks, sitting straight up.

I swallow down the implication—I’m being extra—and attempt to shrug the thought away. “It’s my first Christmas. Of course I’m excited—how does it work with the stockings? Do we pour all the presents out or go one at a time?”

A smile tugs at the corner of Jack’s mouth, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he might be charmed by my enthusiasm. “Bring them here, we can take turns. But fair warning—I didn’t have much handy. I had to get creative.”

“Perfect. Especially because it’s the thought that counts—and creativity takes extra thought!” I unhook the stockings and lay them on the coffee table before taking my spot on the couch next to Jack. “We need music—how’s your battery?”

Jack grabs his phone and frowns. He holds it up, showing the black screen. “Long gone. Yours?”

I reach for mine. “Twenty percent. Enough for a little holiday cheer.” I open Spotify to search for a Christmas morning playlist until Jack stops me, putting his hand on mine.

As his skin touches mine, a jolt of electricity runs through me. I look down at his fingers, splayed across the back of my hand. I can’t remember ever feeling anything like this before from such a simple touch. The last time I felt anything close to this…well, it definitely wasn’t my hand being touched.

I look up at Jack, who seems just as perplexed by whatever it is that’s happening between us. His blue eyes sparkle, full of unspoken questions. I want to tell him yes, but I need him to ask. To initiate.

Keeping my eyes locked on his, I turn my hand over so we’re palm-to-palm. Practically holding hands.

“Is it worth the risk?” Jack asks.

My heart hammers in my chest, and I honestly can’t think of a single risk I wouldn’t take to be with this man. Yes, the whole neighbor thing makes it complicated. And Julie did call dibs on him—but she’s on a cruise, and I’m here. With Jack sitting kissably close.

I’m about to tilt my head in invitation when he says, “Your battery.”

Confused, I sit back. “My…what?”

“We don’t know how long the power will be out,” Jack says, looking down at our hands on my phone.

My cheeks warm as I realize what he’s talking about. This is why I don’t trust my judgment with men.

“Is it worth burning what’s left of your battery to play some cheesy Christmas music?” he asks.

“First of all, yes.” I remove my hand from his. “Second of all, have a little faith. Hanukkah is the Festival of Lights, it’s a holiday of miracles. The power will be back on before my phone dies.”

“You think?”

I shrug. “I think it’s worth the risk.” I hit play and Mariah Carey comes blasting out the small speakers, singing words that have never been more true: In this moment, all I want for Christmas is Jack.

Too bad I have absolutely no clue whether or not he wants me, too.

Thirty minutes later, we’re down to the last gifts at the bottom of our stockings.

Jack understood the assignment; each gift I’ve opened so far, while nothing extraordinary, has felt special and chosen for me. Like he’s actually gotten to know me over these last twelve hours.

He gave me a notebook from one pharmaceutical company and a pen from another to use for my ideas at work (he paid attention when I told him what I did!), a Ventra card for our next adventure (he wants to hang out with me again!), a full punch-card from the coffee shop down the street valid for a free drink ( yum!), a lucky penny so I could make a wish, and a mug that says “myocardium belongs to you,” which he explained was a more technical way of saying his heart.

In Jack’s stocking, I put a scarf that one of Julie’s hookups left here a few weeks ago, a fortune cookie from last night, a bookmark, a dollar so he could buy a scratch-off when the stores open back up, some breath mints, a vanilla candle since he said he didn’t have any, hand sanitizer and a pair of chopsticks.

“Last gifts,” Jack says, rubbing his hands together. “Want to go first?”

“No, you.”

Jack’s face lights up as he reaches back into his compression sock, and I get a flash of what he must have been like as a little boy on Christmas morning. It makes me wish I had something a little more special to give him.

He pulls out the last item—a bag of Hershey Kisses.

“Almost exactly what I was hoping for.” His eyes drift down to my lips, and my stomach does a little flip.

“I mean, they’re not as good as the real thing,” I say. Which is about as forward as I can bring myself to be.

He gives me a slow nod, one eyebrow quirking. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

A little flustered, I reach into the compression stocking and grab what feels like a slip of paper, an oversized Post-it. I pull it out, and it takes me a second to recognize it as a prescription pad. There’s something scribbled on the front—and true to the stereotype, Jack’s handwriting is awful.

I bring the paper closer and try to make out the words—back something?

“It says good for one back rub,” Jack says, laughing. “I told you I had to get creative.”

“I love it—it’s almost exactly what I was hoping for,” I say, echoing his words. I wonder if this is his “creative” way of saying he wants to touch me. Turning toward him on the couch, I let my knee brush against his. Jack doesn’t move, and neither do I. “This has been the best Christmas ever.”

“It’s your only Christmas,” he reminds me.

“My first, but hopefully not my last. So, what’s next on our Christmas morning agenda?”

Jack doesn’t hesitate: “Breakfast.”