Chapter 9
I’m deep asleep when I feel the mattress shift. The warmth against my side disappears, and my body instinctively reaches for it, finding only cold sheets. Bathroom, I think groggily, burrowing deeper into the covers.
But minutes pass. Five. Then ten.
I crack one eye open, squinting at the empty space beside me. The covers are pulled back neatly, like he tried not to disturb me. The room is dark except for the faint glow of Christmas lights from the neighbor’s house filtering through the curtains.
Where is he?
I sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes, and that’s when I hear it—the soft click of the front door opening.
My eyebrows furrow, and I swing my legs out of bed, padding barefoot to the window that overlooks the front yard. The cold floor sends a shiver up my spine as I press my face against the glass.
A massive truck idles a few houses down, its engine a low rumble in the quiet night. No headlights. Just shadows and the faint outline of figures moving in the darkness.
And Alexander—unmistakably Alexander—is walking toward it.
What is he up to?
Curiosity overrides common sense. I grab the first clothes I can find—yesterday’s jeans and an oversized sweatshirt—and yank them on. My fingers fumble with the zipper as I hurry downstairs, too intrigued to go back to sleep.
The front door is unlocked. I slip outside, the December air biting at my exposed skin. Frost crunches under my sneakers as I cross the yard, my breath clouding in front of me.
The truck’s back doors are open. Two men in dark clothes move quietly, lifting something large and rectangular from the cargo bed.
They work without speaking, just the occasional grunt of effort as they maneuver the bulky crate.
Alexander stands nearby, his hands in his pockets, overseeing the operation.
Money changes hands—crisp bills in the moonlight.
“What are you doing?” I ask, not bothering to whisper. Alexander’s shoulders tense. He turns slowly, and even in the darkness, I can see the disappointment etched across his features. His jaw tightens.
“You weren’t supposed to wake up,” he says, his voice low and resigned.
“Well, I did.” I cross my arms against the cold, tilting my head with interest. “What’s going on? Why is there a truck in front of my house at—” I glance at my phone. “—twelve-thirty in the morning?”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s messy from sleep, sticking up in ways it never does during the day, and I hate that I notice. Hate that I find it endearing.
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” he mutters, actual frustration in his voice.
I move closer, peering around him at the crate the men are carefully maneuvering. “A surprise? For who?”
“Why did you wake up?” he asks instead of answering, his eyes searching mine in the darkness. The truth sits on my tongue, dangerous and revealing: I woke up because you weren’t there. Because the bed felt too empty without you.
My face burns despite the cold night air.
“I just—I woke up. That’s all.” I step past him, trying to see what they’re unloading.
“Now are you going to tell me what this is, or do I have to guess?” Before he can answer, one of the men jimmies open the crate with a crowbar.
The sides fall away with barely a sound, and—
My breath catches.
Thousands of LED bulbs arranged in the most spectacular Christmas display I’ve ever seen.
A massive Santa sits in an ornate sleigh, one hand waving, the other holding golden reins.
Nine reindeer are frozen mid-leap, their antlers glittering with tiny white lights.
The sleigh overflows with wrapped presents in reds and golds and silvers, each one detailed and perfect.
It’s enormous. The kind of display that belongs in a mall or a theme park, not a suburban front yard.
My mouth falls open.
“Alexander,” I breathe, spinning to face him. “This is—”
“For your father,” he finishes quietly, watching my reaction carefully. “Since Brookman stole his original snowman display, I thought it was only fair for your father to get something even better.” His lips quirk slightly. “Consider it evening the score.”
My chest tightens. This man—this infuriatingly perfect man—drove to my hometown, learned my family’s traditions, noticed my father’s rivalry with Mr. Brookman, and arranged for a midnight delivery of the most extravagant Christmas display I’ve ever seen.
“But—how did you—when did you—” I gesture helplessly at the display.
“I made some calls the other day,” he says simply, like orchestrating a covert midnight installation is just another day.
“They were supposed to arrive after you went to sleep. I was going to have it set up by morning.” He glances at the men, who are already unpacking rigging equipment.
“Your father would wake up to it already on the roof.”
“On the roof?” I squeak.
“Where else?” He raises an eyebrow. “Brookman’s display is on the roof. We need the high ground.”
A laugh bubbles up, unexpected and delighted. “We?”
“I’m invested now.” His expression is serious, but there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes—mischief, maybe. Satisfaction. “Your father and I are going to crush the competition.”
I stare at him, at this man who’s supposed to be my cold, demanding boss but who’s currently standing in my front yard at midnight, orchestrating an elaborate Christmas surprise for my father. Who’s taken on a neighborhood decorating rivalry like it’s a hostile corporate takeover.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, but I’m grinning so wide my cheeks hurt.
“I prefer ‘thorough,’” he corrects, that devastating half-smile playing at his lips. Then he nods toward the Brookman house across the street. I turn to look, and my smile freezes.
Mr. Brookman’s roof is completely bare. The elaborate snowman display, the one that’s been mocking my father for three years, is gone. Vanished. Just empty space where the massive light-up family used to stand.
My eyes widen in horror. I whip back around to Alexander. “What did you do?” I whisper.
His expression doesn’t change. Calm. Composed. Utterly unrepentant. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
“Alexander—”
“I won’t tell,” he says smoothly, cutting me off. “And you shouldn’t ask.”
I stare at him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t—”
“I’m not telling you anything.” His smile widens just slightly, dangerous and pleased. “Plausible deniability, Olivia. For both of us.”
“Oh, my god.” I press my hands to my face. “You stole Mr. Brookman’s display.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to!” I hiss, gesturing wildly at the empty roof. “It’s right there! Or not there, actually!”
“Interesting observation.” He’s clearly fighting back a grin now. “Though I couldn’t possibly comment on the whereabouts of missing property.”
I should be appalled. Should be marching over to wake up Mr. Brookman and confess everything.
Should be demanding Alexander return whatever he took.
But instead, I find myself fighting back a laugh because my uptight, by-the-book, follows-every-regulation boss just orchestrated a Christmas decoration heist to settle a three-year-old neighborhood rivalry for my father.
“You’re insane,” I breathe.
“I think you mean ‘committed,’” he counters, stepping closer. His hand finds my waist, pulling me against him. “Your father was robbed. I’m simply restoring the balance.”
“That’s not how the law works.”
“Good thing I have excellent lawyers, then.” His thumb traces circles on my hip. “Though again, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just a man who ordered a perfectly legal Christmas display for his girlfriend’s father.”
The emphasis on ‘perfectly legal’ makes me snort despite myself, and the warmth in his voice when he says ‘girlfriend’ makes my stomach flip, even though I know it’s pretend. For a moment, I just allow myself to wonder what if this was real. A thread of yearning wraps itself around me.
One of the installers approaches, speaking in low tones about load-bearing calculations and electrical requirements. Alexander nods, asking questions, pointing at the roof. And I just stand there, simultaneously horrified and oddly touched by his criminal dedication to my family’s happiness.
“There’s no way they can set that thing up without waking everybody in the house,” I mutter in awe.
“These men can,” Alexander says smugly. “I have my resources.” At this point, I’m not even going to argue with him.
I wrap my arms around my stomach. “You’re shivering,” he says suddenly, turning back to me.
“I’m fine,” I lie, even as another shiver runs through me.
“You’re in a sweatshirt. In December. At night.” He shrugs off his coat and drapes it over my shoulders before I can protest. It’s warm from his body heat and smells like him, and I have to resist the urge to pull it tighter around myself and never give it back.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For this. Even if you may or may not have committed a felony to make it happen.”
“Alleged felony,” he corrects with a smile. “The display itself is completely legitimate. I have all the receipts.”
“That’s not the part I’m worried about.”
“Then don’t worry about anything.” His hand lingers on my shoulder, thumb brushing against my collarbone through the thick fabric. “You should go back to bed. This is going to take a few hours.”
“No,” I say firmly, pulling his coat tighter around myself. “I’m staying.” Then a thought occurs to me, and I glance nervously at the Brookman house. “But aren’t they going to make a lot of noise? The whole neighborhood will wake up.”