Chapter 2
Chapter two
Amber
After I clean up the broken glass, I spend the next twenty minutes hunting for the right size tools to work on Braxton’s bike. But I’m like Goldilocks. Every screwdriver I own is either too big or too small for the stupid screws that came in the package.
Frustrated, I toss the last tool across the room and collapse onto the couch with a groan.
The kitchen clock ticks. One minute. Then two.
I have no idea what to do, and, worse, I really want to talk to someone about it. To vent. To laugh about how ridiculous this night has become.
My gaze drifts to the walkie-talkie sitting on the coffee table in front of me.
It’s silent. The red light glows steady, proof it’s still on.
I bite my lip and stare at it, then reach out and brush my fingers over the buttons, wondering what he’s doing right now.
Nick.
Saint Nick.
The name makes the corners of my mouth curl.
It’s late, almost eleven. He’s probably asleep.
That’s what normal people do after a long day of present opening. They go to bed. They don’t contemplate chatting up total strangers through kids’ toys.
Drumming my fingers on the cushion, I stare at the walkie-talkie some more, until it feels like it’s staring back.
I roll over, put my back to it, then immediately turn to face it again.
This is stupid. I need to forget about it, about him, and move on.
Still, my hand creeps toward it.
I tell myself it’s just because I need advice on assembling a bike. That’s all. Practical. Logical. Totally innocent.
“Don’t do it,” I whisper, but my fingers brush the plastic anyway.
That’s when the light turns green and a voice says, “Vixen?”
Startled, I yelp and flinch so hard I fall off the couch. My head smacks the floor, but that doesn’t stop me from whispering, “Thank God,” as I scramble to my knees and snatch the toy up.
“Nick? Nick? I’m here,” I say, then wince, wondering if that sounded too eager. Too needy. My worries fade when I hear the smile in his voice.
“Hey,” Nick says. “Is it too late?”
“No! Nope.” I take a deep breath and tell myself to chill the hell out. “Not too late.”
“Okay, good. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. From your cut, I mean. Wanted to make sure Bluey was doing her job.”
“Oh.” I breathe out a soft laugh as something in my chest lightens, turns warm. “I’m fine. Not lying in a pool of my own blood or anything.” Then, a little more shyly, I add, “That was nice of you to check up on me.”
“Well, you know,” he says, “just trying to be a good neighbor and all that.”
I settle back on the couch and adjust the walkie-talkie so it’s more comfortable. “That’s right. I guess we are neighbors, since we can talk on this thing.”
For a minute, I almost ask which street he lives on, but I swallow the question back. That would lead to him asking where I live, and I probably shouldn’t tell him that. Not with just me and Braxton here alone.
“Yep,” Nick says, clearing his throat. “We’re definitely close. I can hear you pretty clearly.”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling softly. “It’s kind of wild, isn’t it? Two random people ending up on the same frequency.”
“Christmas magic,” Nick says lightly, but there’s something in his tone that makes my chest tighten.
“More like cheap toy coincidence,” I tease, though I’m still smiling.
“Maybe.” His voice goes quieter. “Still kind of nice, though. Talking to someone.”
I nod before realizing he can’t see me. “It is.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward exactly, just full of quiet understanding.
He breaks it first. “You’re really building that bike tonight, huh?”
“Trying to,” I groan. “Next time I see Santa, I’m filing a formal complaint about his toy shop’s assembly department.”
Nick laughs, that low, easy kind of laugh that makes you want to say something funny just to hear it again. “I get that. Half the stuff I’ve put together for my niece and nephew ends up looking like modern art.”
I laugh. “Oh, so you’re saying there’s still hope for me.”
“Absolutely. Worst-case scenario, you turn it into a sculpture and say it’s a creative choice.”
“That’s actually not a bad plan.” I grin at the thought. “I can literally help bring someone back to life, but I can’t put together this damn bike.”
He hums, intrigued. “Wait. You’re a paramedic or something?”
“A nurse,” I admit. “ER. Night shifts mostly.”
“Now I feel silly for asking about your cut. You can obviously take care of that yourself.”
“No,” I rush to tell him. “Don’t feel bad. I like that you asked.”
A pleased exhale filters through the static. “Glad it doesn’t bother you. I can’t help it. Thinking of worst-case scenarios is kinda my job.”
I tuck my legs under me. “Really? What do you do?”
“I’m an actuary.”
“A who?” I tilt my head, frowning. The word sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
He laughs. “An actuary. I use math and statistics to predict risks and outcomes for insurance companies.” A short pause. “You know, like the odds of someone slicing their hand open on Christmas night.”
I pretend to gasp. “You’re literally predicting my downfall in real time.”
“Purely professional interest,” he says, his voice laced with laughter. “Told you, I’m the less-popular sibling.”
“I’m not buying that.” I stand to refill my wine. “You’re way too easy to talk to for someone who claims to be unpopular.”
“Aw, are you complimenting me?” he teases, though underneath it there’s real pleasure in his voice.
I snort. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
He chuckles again. “I won’t. Besides, I never said I wasn’t popular, just less popular.” His voice softens. “You’re easy to talk to, too.”
I duck my head like I need to hide my blush, which is ridiculous since he can’t see me. “I mean…I am pretty charming.”
I expect him to throw something sarcastic back, but instead he says quietly, “You really are.”
My heart does a slow somersault. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly too aware of the space between his breaths and mine. “Thanks,” I whisper.
The air hums with unspoken things until his tone shifts. It’s still gentle, but a little more thoughtful. “So…does your kid still believe in Santa?”
I blink. “My son? Yeah. Completely. He left out cookies, carrots for the reindeer, the whole nine yards. He even made me leave a note for Santa to sign so he’d have proof in the morning.”
Nick chuckles. “Smart kid.”
“Too smart,” I say softly. “I don’t know what I’ll do when he stops believing. He’s the only one who makes Christmas feel like…Christmas anymore.”
There’s a pause, then his voice returns, lower, almost hesitant. “It’s the same over here.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. My niece and nephew keep the magic alive for my sister. Her husband’s deployed, so I’ve been trying to fill in for Santa this year. Badly, judging by the IKEA-level frustration in my living room. Still, it’s worth it to see them happy.”
Something in his voice makes me swallow hard. “You’re a good brother.”
He laughs under his breath. “I try. Not sure she’d always agree, though.”
There’s a pause long enough for me to hear the faint hum of whatever Christmas movie he’s left playing in the background.
“You must really love your sister,” I say.
“I do,” he answers softly. “She’s been through hell these past few years. Our parents died not long before her husband got deployed, and since then it’s just been me trying to fill all the gaps.”
My throat tightens. “That’s a lot to carry.”
“Yeah,” he admits after a beat. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing any of it right. I’m supposed to be the numbers guy, the one who has the odds figured out, but lately…” His laugh is soft, humorless. “Lately, nothing adds up.”
I don’t know why, but I whisper, “I understand.”
“You do?”
“Completely.” I glance toward the bike scattered in pieces across my living-room floor, a fitting metaphor for my life. “I had this plan once. You know? Perfect family, perfect house, perfect holidays. Then my husband decided he wanted someone else, and suddenly nothing made sense.”
Nick is quiet for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, his voice rougher now. “He’s an idiot.”
A small laugh escapes me. “That’s nice of you to say.”
He chuckles, but it’s softer this time. “It’s true. You deserve better.”
The words hang between us. They shouldn’t matter, coming from a stranger, but, somehow, they do. They feel heavier, more fitting, than all the well-meaning pity I’ve been offered for months by the people who actually know me.
“Honestly,” I murmur. “Most days I’m just trying to make it to bedtime without crying in the laundry room.”
He hums gently. “Then you’re doing better than most.”
Something in my chest loosens, the way it does when someone sees you without you having to explain.
“I can tell you’re strong,” he says quietly. “The kind of person who keeps everything from falling apart, even when it costs her.”
The words hit harder than they should. “You sound like you’ve been looking at my life through my living-room window.”
“Only statistically,” he teases, and that makes me laugh again, the tension cracking just enough to breathe.
Softer, almost tentatively, Nick says, “Can I tell you something weird?”
I swallow. “What?”
“I’m glad I got my niece this toy for Christmas.”
That single line shouldn’t make my pulse trip, but it does. It’s the way he says it, quiet and serious, like he’s admitting more than he means to.
“Me too,” I whisper, and immediately I feel how heavy the air has gotten.
Silence hums between us, alive. I can hear him breathing through the static, slow and steady, like he’s close enough for me to feel it on my neck.
“Where are you right now?” he asks softly.
“Living room, staring at my Christmas tree. You?”
“Same.” His voice dips lower, threaded with warmth. I try to picture him…tall, maybe, with a tired kind of confidence. A voice like that has to belong to someone handsome, but I can’t fill in the details: his hair, his eyes, the way he smiles.
“What color’s your hair?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Almost black,” he says, and I paint it in my mind.
“Eyes?”