27. Little Wonders #2
He flips us in one swift movement, pinning me beneath him.
“Now we’re talking.” I squirm.
“Tell me you love me and I’ll fuck you.”
“Fuck me, pretty please,” I whisper. His weight presses into me—grounding, heavy in all the right ways.
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love…” I drag it out, wicked, “your eyes.”
“And your muscles.” I squirm again. “And your cock. Inside me.”
He growls—low, rough.
“And this,” I say, pressing my hand to his chest.
His heart.
God, he has the most beautiful heart. And all I can think was how much I don’t want to break it. How badly I want to keep it safe—from me and all my fucked-up shit.
Then he stills.
“I can’t love you,” I say quietly. “I’m not allowed.”
His body locks. The air shifts—tight, brittle.
Voice low, coaxing. “Why?”
He rolls off me but keeps one leg draped over mine. The weight of it is solid, comforting. His hand finds my hair, stroking the tendrils that escape my messy bun.
The room feels thick. My limbs heavy with wine. My chest, heavier still.
And drunk on it all—on him, on this—I finally confess it.
“Because you’re perfect…and I’m broken. And I don’t want to ruin you. Because hurt people, hurt people and I’m hurting so much,” I say barely a whisper, as the consequences of the nights excess starts to pull me in deeper.
“Elena,” he murmurs, still stroking my hair, encouraging me to continue.
But sleep comes for me before I can.
I wake to the sound of the headboard slamming.
Rhythmic.
Aggressive.
Then Riley’s muffled voice—Oh my God, yes, right there—
Broderick’s hand clamps over my ears. “Merry Christmas to us.”
“Go Riley, go!” I applaud weakly, still half-asleep. “Merry Christmas!”
“You two have the weirdest dynamic.” He laughs, shifting beside me, his leg still tangled with mine.
“Don’t hate us ‘cause you ain’t us,” I mumble, grinning into the pillow.
Oh Luca, I’m gonna...
“I should’ve gotten you noise-cancelling headphones for Christmas.”
“And a gag—because clearly I caused that to happen with the shit I said last night.”
“There’s an idea.” He winks, something wicked in it.
Then he tickles me until I can’t breathe.
When I finally catch my breath, he watches me for a moment, eyes soft. Searching.
“Do you remember much from last night?”
“Hmm.” I pause, pretending to think. The truth is—I do. But I can’t admit it.
I told him I loved his heart. Because I was too afraid to admit the real truth.
He sighs. “One day, I hope you can trust me enough to tell me why you think you don’t deserve love.”
“One day. But not today—today is Christmas.”
We lie there in silence, watching the snow fall outside, before rolling out of bed. He pulls on his pants and shirt.
“I’ve gotta go. Christmas with Ma—which means church, to pray for our sins.”
“I might be a lost cause.” I laugh, throwing on a hoodie and follow him out.
I hear Riley in the kitchen. Broderick stops short in the living room and beelines for the Christmas tree.
“I didn’t get a chance to give this to you last night,” he says, bending down to pick up a gold gift bag and handing it to me.
“What? You didn’t have to get me anything,” I say, frowning.
“I think you’ll like it—trust me, it cost me nothing.”
I dig my hand into the bag and pull out a haphazardly wrapped present, tearing into it. Inside is a CD. The front reads Elena’s Mix Vol. 2. This time, he’s created a collage of photos from our time on the road together—Chicago, Vegas.
My heart clenches. “Broderick.” It’s all I can manage as I look up at him, his green eyes sparkling with excitement—and something else.
“Turn it over,” he murmurs.
When I do, I gasp, staring at the collection of songs he’s curated for me once again.
It says all the things he wants to say but won’t—for fear of scaring me away.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my fingertips tracing the handwritten tracklist.
Unlike the first time he gave me a playlist, I let myself settle into what this moment means for us. Maybe the start of something else…something more?
He leans down and kisses my forehead, lingering just a second too long. “Can I see you tonight?”
“Yes, please. Did you want to stay over again?” I offer, caressing his face, my thumb resting in his dimple—wanting to give him the more he’s asking for. The more he deserves.
His eyes widen. “Is this my Christmas gift?”
“One of them.” I tug at his shirt, pulling him closer. “Only if you’re a good boy.”
He chuckles. “I’ll be a good boy if you behave yourself with the parentals.”
“I make no promises,” I say, wrapping my robe tighter around me. “Tell the family I said Merry Christmas.”
“Will do.”
He steals one last kiss before leaving.
I join Riley in the kitchen, feeling drunk on Broderick. She’s busy making coffee and toast in her robe.
“You’re glowing,” I mutter.
“Same could be said for you.” She smirks. “Plus, you lined up the shots last night—thanks for that.”
“Wing-woman duties. I got you…so I take it you two had fun?”
“We did, but it’s a one-time thing—won’t happen again. He snuck out of here quick-smart.”
I sense the disappointment in her voice. Luca’s got the rest of the holidays off, so we probably won’t see him ‘til the new year.
“Is that what you want?” I ask, making myself a cup of coffee.
She shrugs. “Yeah. Anyway, enough about that. It’s Christmas! Merry Christmas, babe!—guess you guys broke the no-sleep-over rule?”
“Nice deflection,” I quip, nudging her. “Let’s get ready.”
“Right back at ya.”
We finish our light breakfast and dress in our planned matching ugly sweaters—something we never got to do growing up with sweaty Australian Christmases, where the only layers were sunscreen and sand.
The heat was sweltering. We were fortunate that our home backed right onto the beach, with easy access from a set of salt-worn steps.
Riley and I trotted up them after our morning swim, wet and sandy.
The smell of the barbecue drifted through the veranda where Philippa and Mom were setting the table, Christmas music blaring from the stereo.
“What smells so good, Dad?”
“Got a couple chops on—some prawns and lobbies.”
“Yum.”
“I better head back, Elena—let you guys celebrate Chrissy.”
Riley wore a look of dread, and I hated to think what she was going home to. Her parents—high, no doubt.
“Riley, why don’t you get your brothers and come back for dinner, okay? We made plenty,” Mom said.
Philippa huffed. Spoiled brat.
Riley’s eyes lit up. “Are you sure, Auntie Vida? I don’t want to intrude.”
“Never. We love you, Riley—you’re family.”
Philippa stood abruptly and stormed back inside.
“Did I do something wrong?” Riley asked.
“No, sweetheart. She’s not used to the heat. Run along, go get Russell and Ryan.”
“Okay!” Riley beamed, feet already moving as she darted down the side of the house.
Mom’s shoulders slumped as she headed inside—probably to deal with another one of Philippa’s teenage temper-tantrums.
I followed, making a beeline for the bathroom to shower.
“I hate it here.” Philippa’s irritated voice traveled down the hallway.
“I know, Anak, but we’re together. It’s Christmas.”
“Don’t call me that! I want to be in Vermont with Sienna and her family, skiing and drinking hot cocoa—not here getting eaten alive by mosquitoes and playing charity with the local riff-raff.”
I approached quietly, only to catch my mother’s face in the reflection of the mirror, disappointment etched into her features. Philippa had been raised in privilege—nannies, butlers, lavish holidays. It was all she knew.
“Then go back,” I snapped, anger flaring. “How dare you call my best friend riff-raff? We don’t want you here anyway, you stuck-up bitch.”
“Elena!”
“You’re vile,” Philippa spat back.
“Girls, please don’t fight. You’re sisters—you should love each other.”
Sisters. Riley was more my sister than Philippa ever would be. I barely knew her; she always ignored me, glued to her phone, whining about how small our house was—how we lived in the middle of nowhere.
“She started it.”
“You treat Riley more like your daughter than me,” Philippa shot back. “If you love her so much, why don’t you adopt her?”
“Oh my God, Mom, can you?” I asked hopeful.
“You act like she’s your sister,” Philippa said, pouting, tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go back home,” she whined, throwing herself into her pillow to cry.
“Elena, go shower,” my mother snapped, her voice no-nonsense. I knew that was my cue to go.
Part of me felt bad for Philippa. But another part of me was loyal to Riley. Where Philippa lived a life of luxury—doted on and given everything her heart desired—Riley had nothing. And she deserved everything.
Eventually, Riley returned with her brothers, and we sat down to an incredible Christmas dinner. The air was thick with the scent of grilled seafood and sunscreen, laughter echoing off the veranda—even if Philippa pouted through most of it.
I caught myself watching her between bites, remembering a time when we were closer. It felt like a lifetime ago. Maybe she just felt like an outsider here—surrounded by sand instead of city lights, by people who didn’t know what it meant to have everything handed to them.
And I understood. Because that was exactly how I felt when I was in New York with them.
The townhouse glows as the fireplace roars, the tree looks a little too big for the room, festive music softly humming playing throughout. Everything smells like pine, cinnamon, orange peel, and something vaguely French.
Carole greets us with a warm hug—which is new for me.
“Oh, look at the two of you,” she remarks, eyeing our ridiculous sweaters. She holds us at arm’s length—her touch warm.
Mortimer laughs, shaking his head. “Merry Christmas to my girls,” he says, to both Riley and me.
“Aww, Monty, are you going to adopt me? Do I get a fat trust fund too?” Riley winks.
He chuckles—actually chuckles.
It’s a sweet moment. Seeing Riley crack his facade, she could do it to anyone with ease.
“Merry Christmas,” I say.