Chapter 10 Dean
TEN
DEAN
Ilay on Anna’s couch around five the next morning, unable to sleep past this hour no matter how hard I try.
When a man is accustomed to waking before the sun and getting his five miles in before breakfast, habits become a crutch and sleep-ins are no longer possible.
Instead, I turn the television on, the volume all the way down so it’s just one click away from mute, and for ten minutes, maybe fifteen, I watch Kevin McCallister set traps for a couple of dumbasses on screen.
Shattered baubles on the floor, fireworks in lieu of gunfire. The kid works around Christmas trees and towering presents. Mantelpiece displays, and nutcrackers… so many nutcrackers.
My shoulder throbs with a deep, blinding agony, pain radiating in waves to the base of my back and around to my solar plexus.
Jesus. A guy gets hit by a car one time and his body makes him feel it for days after.
Curling my bad arm and cradling it against my chest, I use my right to push up on the couch, settling my feet on the floor and my back against the cushions.
I glance down in the darkness at the gray sweatpants I pilfered from Nick’s closet yesterday, alongside his suit, a pair of shoes, a couple of casual shirts, and a bag to keep it all in.
I mean, shit, if a guy’s gonna end up mortally wounded just a few days before Christmas, landing inside the home of a woman whose beauty literally, physically takes his breath away, then becoming pals with an insanely rich guy who wears the same size clothes is what I consider a fun little cherry on top of a not-too-unpleasant cake.
And that doesn’t even take into account the million dollar test he offered me the day we met.
The fact I wear sweatpants right now, and not jeans, is probably proof I passed.
There’s always a silver lining if one looks for it, and despite Anna’s refusal to believe in the magic of Christmas, I wholeheartedly think being hit by a car in, say, dreary old March, wouldn’t be nearly as fun.
Anna believed once before. I bet she could find the magic again if she tried hard enough.
My heart thrums with excitement, with energy and exhilaration as the dude on TV loses his face in a tragic ironing incident.
Bounding up from the couch, I leave the lights off, but the television on, and darting through the house, I work in silence, unpacking boxes and laying each new piece out for consideration.
Wreathes—Anna has half a dozen to choose from—and actual child-size Santas, just ready to hover in the shadows and scare an unsuspecting victim.
I allow the first Home Alone movie to roll into the second, with upbeat music just barely tickling my ears and the crackle of the fire warming the house.
As the sun slowly rises in the east and Anna remains blissfully, beautifully asleep, I hang mistletoe from the doorway leading into the kitchen, and thick, festive garland from every surface I can manage.
Dust settles in my nose, tickling my sinuses, but even that is a fun Christmas experience in itself.
I leave space for a tree, the open, unoccupied slice of floor glaring compared to the rest of the living room.
That woman last night, the fighter who doesn’t care for competition, she’s Anna’s opposite in all the best ways, and because she was, she became a bright, beacon-like reminder of why I wanted to dance with one and not the other.
Competition, I understand. To challenge is to flirt in my world, and Anna’s life’s work is to argue inside courtrooms five days a week. The woman could barely contain the nasty sneer shot Captain Bosmian’s way, and I know I saw jealousy spark in her eyes while Kira smiled up at me.
Fuck yes, Anna knows competition.
She likes it.
I make a cup of hot chocolate and help myself to the mini marshmallows. As the clock ticks toward eight and the dry erase board sits exactly where I left it, my words still scribbled in red, I pick up the marker and use my shirt to wipe the board clean.
Humming under my breath, I consider for a beat… what to write? What to write? What the hell do I write that might, even just a little, crack the armor so tightly wrapped around Anna Maxwell’s frozen heart?
When inspiration strikes as subtly as a bolt of lightning, I smile so broad, my cheeks push into my line of vision and my pulse thrums in my chest.
Uncapping the marker, I fold over the counter and write as neatly as I can, which is still pretty fuckin’ messy. I move from line to line, covering the whiteboard with swirling squiggles and sharp full stops.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I shoot up tall and spin to find Anna waiting beneath the mistletoe, her long, lean legs exposed under a wildly oversized hoodie much like the one she wore yesterday, her feet wrapped in a pair of purple fluffy socks, and her sleek mahogany hair, caught in a nest of sorts atop her head.
Her cheeks are too pale, her eyes are too sad, her mood… equal parts devastation and rage, made significantly worse when the train meant for underneath the tree goes rogue, the little choo-choo engine chugging its way out of the living room and savagely colliding with Anna’s ankle.
“Ha.” I choke out a nervous laugh, raising one hand in surrender. A mistake, really, when red smudges from the marker paint my guilt like a cliché. “So, I know things are a little different, but I don’t want you to freak out.”
Her jaw grits and flexes, her eyes flittering around the kitchen.
It’s not as Christmassy as the living room, but garland hangs across the cabinets, and a reindeer stands guard by the back door.
She draws a noisy breath, her chest expanding as she peeks up at the mistletoe hanging directly above her head.
Finally, she brings fiery, not-very-nice eyes back to mine.
“I’m gonna go ahead and assume our mutual car accident affected your brain more than we thought, which led you to this unfortunate, unintelligent decision where you felt it appropriate to disregard every single thing I told you about my feelings toward Christmas.
” She flattens her lips, glowering. “I said hey Dean, I don’t do Christmas, and that somehow translated to my name is Dean, and I’m gonna spew tinsel all over Anna’s house while she sleeps. ”
“If you could just humor me?” I set the marker down and take a wary step closer to the woman apt to run. Though, not before she knocks me unconscious with a cast-iron frying pan. “It’s not that I didn’t hear you—”
“Oh, okay,” she quips, falsely enthused. “So, you chose to do something you knew would upset me?”
“Counter perspective…” I take another step closer. “I hoped decorating would encourage you to reconsider your stance on the holidays.”
“I don’t need to reconsider!” She throws her hand in my direction. “This is my house, Dean! This is my life. Those were my wishes. And these,” she shoots an accusatory finger toward the reindeer, “were your actions.”
She stalks across the kitchen and snatches poor Rudolph up by his bright red nose.
Opening her back door, she yeets that sorry motherfucker into the snow and slams the door behind it.
“I don’t want Christmas! I don’t want to pretend that this isn’t statistically the worst time of the year for countless people.
I don’t want to hang a fucking wreath and act like, yep, that fixed everything!
And I don’t want to stand here and pretend to enjoy Christmas just to make you happy. ”
“Anna—”
“I get it, okay?! You like the holidays. You like to dance and bake and hug your mom and sing and watch cartoons. You like to emotionally manipulate everyone around you, and God forbid a person admit December fucking sucks! It sucks, Dean. December is lame, and Christmas is lame. Families are lame and gift giving is lame. Mayyyyybe, way back at its inception, the spirit of Christmas was sweet and romantic, a way to bring families together, but it stopped being that a long, long time ago. Now, it’s credit card debt and seasonal depression.
It’s loneliness and guilt and a warped sense of duty to people you probably don’t even like, anyway.
” She chokes on a hitching breath, her chest shuddering with pain she’s been harboring since…
I don’t even know when. “It’s you,” she moans, “trying so fucking hard to make me smile, because you think tinsel and mistletoe can fix something that can’t be fixed.
The joke’s on you, because you’ve taken that responsibility on your shoulders for a woman you don’t even know…
for someone you don’t even like.” She stares me down from across the room, her cheeks splotchy in the early morning light, her eyes glassy.
Fuck, I made her cry.
“I get that we’re in this weird in-between space this week.
We met under unusual circumstances, we’re both attempting to avoid prison for the crimes we’ve committed, and you’re clearly a romantic at heart who thinks if I can just be persistent enough, I could thaw that Grinch Bitch out and be the hero I always knew she needed.
But I don’t want to be thawed out.” She drags the sleeve of her hoodie over her cheek.
“I don’t want to fall in love with Christmas again. ”
She spies my cup of hot chocolate, her breath hitching and fresh tears dripping onto her cheeks, then she crosses the room on fast feet and steals it.
“I think it’s wonderful that you believe.
I think it’s beautiful and sweet and, in spite of your massive criminal history red-flagging all over the place, I think a man whose immediate thought upon waking after being hit by a car is that I might be a Christmas angel and not simply a reckless driver, is sexy and charming and green flaggy enough to neutralize some of the other stuff.
But I’m not the person you’re gonna share the magic with.
” She carries the hot chocolate around the counter and stops right in front of me.
Glancing up, she hits me with wet eyes brimming with heartache.
“This isn’t a Hallmark movie, and I’m not a Christmas angel come to sweep you off your feet.
I’m just a bitter, mean harpy who should’ve learned her lesson twenty years ago…
but didn’t.” She licks her lips and releases a tired sigh.
“I didn’t listen. I didn’t learn, so the universe smacked me down and pushed a painful—unforgettable—lesson home. ”
Her sadness breaks my heart. Her helplessness almost makes me weep. But her eyes, as she spins and heads toward the door, make me weak.
“I’m not saying you have to leave, since I know we’re still dealing with the car thing, and the not-a-jewelry-heist situation.
But for every minute you stay inside my home, you’re robbing yourself of a chance to experience Christmas magic.
You won’t find it here, and you’re way too cute Ho-Ho-Ho’ing your way through each day to miss out.
Go be with your family.” She stops by the door, one hand on the frame, one wrapped around my mug.
“Go bake cookies and drink spiked eggnog. If the police figure this heist stuff out, it’s possible you’re gonna spend a few years behind bars, and when that happens, you’re gonna wish you didn’t waste your time on me. ”
“You gonna snitch to the cops?” I stay where I am, though my hands itch to grab her. I cock my hip against the counter, though my heart yearns to meet my perfect match exactly where she is. “I heard you talking to the captain last night. You planning to tell him what you think you know?”
She coughs out a soft, laughing breath. Shaking her head, she pushes away from the doorframe. “Nah. Breaking attorney-client privilege could get me disbarred.” Before she goes, she peeks back and meets my eyes. “Will you please rescue Rudolph from the backyard? I feel kinda bad now.”
“Sure.” I fold my arms and hold my space for as long as she stares. For as long as she needs. And then, for the time she takes to wander the living room and inspect the decorations I’ve already put out.
At the sound of the front door opening, and a second later, closing, I turn to the dry erase board and reread my words. The hastily scribbled message. The heart I infused into every letter.
Anna. I was a little slow off the mark, since I was twelve when I realized Santa wasn’t real and all the magic I thought belonged to him actually existed because of my mom.
I was sad when she told me. Devastated, like someone I loved had died. She held me through my heartache and promised that if I believed hard enough, I could be the magic for someone else. Please don’t be mad I decorated your house. You deserve to believe again.
Exhaling a sad sigh, I swipe my message away, dragging my thumb through each letter I penned, through the hope I hoped to gift her with, and the magic I wish she could feel.
Picking up the marker a second time, I uncap the end and simply write;
I’m sorry for hurting your heart. It wasn’t my intention.