20. “I hope he likes tacky golden bows.”
“I hope he likes tacky golden bows.”
Caleb Hawthorne
After my minor humiliation at the rink, Aria and I grabbed a hot chocolate and drove back home.
I won’t forget that fall anytime soon. Not because I made a fool of myself, but because Aria was straddling me, her face inches from mine.
For a brief second, I seriously considered kissing her.
And the crazy thing is, I’m convinced she was thinking the same thing.
It’s hard to chase those thoughts from my head, and as we’re cooking dinner and chatting, I replay the moment over and over in my mind.
It’s lik e she’s always been a part of my life, an integral cornerstone of my routine, and I can’t imagine my life being any different now. Maybe it doesn’t have to be.
“Should we wrap the gifts?” Aria asks after dinner, grabbing the wrapping paper we bought at the market.
I shake myself back into focus. “Yep. Let’s get this over with.”
I fetch the model plane for Owen and Lisa’s tablet, placing them on the dining room table.
Aria unrolls the wrapping paper across the work surface, squinting at it like she’s about to perform surgery. “Okay, let’s do this.” She grabs the plane, leaving me with the tablet.
I start cutting my wrapping paper, but within seconds, I hear a loud crinkling sound. I glance up to find Aria struggling—badly. The paper is slipping, the scissors are somehow tangled in the crimped roll, and the box is sliding across the table like it’s actively trying to escape her.
“Need some help?” I ask, already biting back a laugh.
“No,” she huffs, shoving the box back into place. “I’ve got this.”
She does not got this.
Finally, she manages to cut out a square of paper, but the edges are jagged, like she just hacked at it with a knife. I watch with amusement as she attemp ts to fold the edge, but instead of a crisp line, it bunches awkwardly, like she’s wrapping a football instead of a box with right angles.
I lean on my elbow. “You ever wrapped a gift before?”
She glares at me. “I don’t know.”
The answer hits me like a slap in the face. Right. She doesn’t remember.
The teasing in her eyes flickers away for half a second before she groans and drops her head onto the table. “Judging by this disaster, though? Probably not.”
I move behind her, the warmth of her body radiating close. “Here, let me show you.” I reach for the scissors and paper, my fingers brushing hers as I take them. “Just watch.”
I position the box on the paper, distracted by the scent of her shampoo, something subtly floral.
My heart starts pounding as I guide her hand.
The cool metal of the scissors is a stark contrast to the warmth of her fingers beneath mine.
“Like this.” I demonstrate, the blades gliding smoothly through the paper, the sharp sound amplified in the quiet room. “Slow and steady.”
Her breath hitches, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, as I stand behind her, my hands over hers.
I can feel the slight tremble in her fingers—or maybe it’s mine.
As I guide her through each fold, the air crackles with unspoken tension, our closeness amplifying th e smallest movement.
The pressure of her shoulder against my side and the way her hair brushes my cheek threaten to break my focus.
I take a step back, wanting to put some distance between the heat of her body and the pounding of my heart.
“Now, fold this edge. Crisp, like this.”
She folds it, but she tugs a little too harshly, and the paper tears along the top of the box.
“I’m a disaster,” she says, shaking her head.
“You’re fine. And it’s nothing a well-placed bow can’t fix.”
She perks up. “You’re right. I love bows.”
She grabs the biggest, most obnoxious bow we have and slaps it on top. Then, she tilts her head, inspecting it. “Huh.”
I hold back a laugh. “Better?”
She grimaces. “Not really.”
I chuckle, leaning in slightly. “It’s fine. Trust me, Owen will be too eager to open it to even care about the packaging.”
“Good point,” she says, shaking her head. “I hope he likes tacky golden bows.”
“He’ll love it.” I laugh. “And we’ll have an entire year to improve your gift-wrapping skills before next Christmas.”
“True.” She agrees easily, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
As though she’ll still be here next year.
I glance at her, and she meets my eyes without hesitation, holding my gaze longer than usual. There’s no cloud of doubt, no uncertainty—just quiet, simple agreement.
Something tightens in my chest. She said it without realizing what it means—without realizing it’s the first time she’s talked about the future like she’s a part of it.
And I really want her to be. It’s crystal clear now.
I’ll find a way to manage hockey. If the others can do it, why can’t I?
Who says I’ll make the same mistakes I did when I was a teenager?
I’m a grown man, and balance is one of my best skills.
My dad managed to build a successful business while caring for his family.
He’s already proven what’s possible. If there’s a chance at something with me and Aria, I have to take it.
After wrapping the gifts, we pull out the LEGO basketball court we’re building and settle back into our routine.
The soft click of plastic pieces snapping into place fills the quiet space between us.
Aria is meticulous, her brows pinching in concentration as she carefully aligns each block.
The glow of the table lamp casts a warm light over her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek as she studies the instruction manual.
“We make a good team,” she says softly, her fingers brushing mine as we both reach for the same piece. The contact is brief, but my skin tingles in its wake.
“Definitely.” I nod, placing a red block, though my focus lingers for a second too long on her lips before I look away.
“Then again, maybe we’re taking twice the time you do when you’re alone.” She chuckles, the carefree sound curling around me like the floral scent of her shampoo.
“Nope. We’re faster, I think. And we’re making fewer mistakes. You know, the four-eyes principle.”
“Right. Good thing I got my other eye back,” she jokes, tapping her temple. Her gaze flickers to me, and for a brief moment, I swear there’s something deeper in her eyes—something unspoken, something I don’t have the nerve to name.
“It’s starting to look super cool. Where are you planning to put this one?” she asks as she shifts slightly, her knee bumping mine under the table.
“I’m not sure.” I glance around the family room, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that we’re alone, the house still and silent around us.
“I usually build animals and monuments, but this set was too good to pass up. A branded New York Eagles basketball court? I mean, come on. Childhood dream come true.” I fiddle with one of the blocks.
“Actually, I would have been more ecstatic about a Raptors rink, but that doesn’t exist.”
“Yeah,” she murmurs, looking away. “It’s a shame. Maybe you should bring that up to whoever’s in charge of branding and retail? I’m sure people would go crazy for a Raptors LEGO set.”
“Solid plan.” I bob my head, wondering why I didn’t think of that sooner. But before I can say anything else, a loud yawn escapes me.
Aria chuckles, her lips curving. “Maybe we should call it a night? You worked all week, and I’m guessing you’ve been up since dawn. Not to mention that massive fall you took.”
“Hey!” I throw a small LEGO at her, which she easily dodges. “That’s mean,” I grumble, grinning despite myself.
“Just kidding.” She smirks, then nudges my arm. “But seriously, we can finish this another day.”
“That’s probably wise.” I sigh, gathering up the loose pieces.
After stowing the set, we make our way upstairs, the quiet of the house settling around us as we climb the two flights.
Our steps fal l into sync, and I’m painfully aware of how close we are—the occasional brush of our arms, the way her breath quickens from the climb.
Then again, maybe that’s just my own pulse kicking up for a reason I refuse to analyze.
When we reach her door, she hesitates, turning to face me. The dim hallway light illuminates her face, catching in her eyes as she looks up at me.
“Well . . .good night,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Night,” I murmur. Neither of us moves.
As our eyes lock, it feels like something else should happen—like I should say something, do something.
All I can think about is kissing her. But is that what she wants?
Can she even consent to a kiss when she still doesn’t know who she is?
The moment stretches on for too long, turning into an almost-awkward silence, and she shifts on her feet, reaching for the doorknob.
“See you in the morning,” she adds, her voice quieter now.
I nod, stepping back. “Yeah. See you.”
She slips inside her room, and I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through my hair. Trying to ignore the whirlwind of emotions warring in my chest, I force myself up the stairs to my own room.