“And in this plan,” I ask, narrowing my eyes with a grin tugging at my lips, “when do I get to do something for you?”
“Not that it’s tit-for-tat,” he teases, “but you’re awake now, aren’t you?”
Unbelievable. This man. I giggle and shake my head.
I set the ornament gently on the nightstand and throw myself at him. His chest is warm against mine as I hug him, hard enough to nearly knock us both flat. “Merry Christmas to you too. I love the ornament. And I love you.” I kiss his cheek, quick and playful, then swing a leg over him until I’m straddling his hips.
“What now?” he asks, sinking back into the pillows, hands resting on my ass like he’s already claimed his prize.
“Now,” I murmur, leaning close enough to breathe in his scent, warm, spicy, and now a touch of cinnamon too, “we get to do the rest of our lives together. No rules.” My heart is pounding, and I wonder if he can hear it too. “Well…maybe one final rule.”
His eyebrows lift. “What’s that?”
“That we keep being best friends, even now that we’re lovers.”
His smile softens, warm enough to melt me where I sit. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I pause, memorizing everything: the crash of waves outside, the faint tang of salt clinging to my skin. The memories from not only last night, but the entire weekend, the way his eyes catch the light and hold me steady, his scent, his kindness, his eyes that never leave mine. The weekend has been magic, and I can already see Bee’s jaw hitting the floor when I tell her every detail.
“Now, for your gift…” My voice drops as I tug the sheets over us, a grin playing at my lips.
I show him exactly how much I love him—without needing a single word.
Epilogue
LUCKY BY JASON MRAZ AND COLBIE CAILLAT
Daisy
A year later
“Pass me the pasteles, mija,” Omar, Mateo’s dad, says. His voice is warm, a little gravelly, the kind of voice that makes even a simple request sound like an invitation to belong. I don’t remember exactly when he changed my nickname from sweetheart to mija, but I take it like a badge I’ve secretly longed for.
I do as he says and smile softly at him, because getting to know him better this past year has been unexpectedly healing for me and my daddy issues.
He’s an incredible dad—gentle but steady—and Mateo and Livie are lucky to have him. He’s quiet most of the time, but he likes board games, and I do too. It feels like our own private language when we play. After the whole fake-to-actually-dating thing last Christmas, we’ve gottencloser, I guess now that he knows I’m not just the friend. Still, I would love to know when I can actually wear the ‘mija’ tag proudly. I hope I will one day, right?
I mean, I’ve been dating Mateo for a year now. We moved in together almost immediately after coming back from the Dominican. My lease was up, and he couldn’t get me in his house fast enough. Our house, as he would correct me, gently but firmly. Did he let me put any money down? Nope. He still won’t let me pay for anything. When I threw a fit about it, he asked for five dollars to pay the notary and added my name to the title. “Just sign here,” he said, and it was all done.
Livie and I are closer than ever…but still, I’m just the girlfriend. I don’t want to complain or sound ungrateful, because really, being his girlfriend is what I dreamed of for years. Now, though, I’m getting impatient. I just want him to put a ring on it. Call me superficial or cliché or whatever, but I want the ring. I already have the house and the man and the family—since they took me in as one of their own—and now, I want the ring.
“Here.” I smile at Omar as I pass the plate, but his attention flickers toward Mateo, a crease of concern in his brow. I don’t blame him—Mateo looks pale, like he’s about to keel over.
“Hey, are you okay? Do you need water?” I ask, leaning in to touch Mateo’s forehead instinctively. He feels fine, but he doesn’t look it. He’s barely touched his food, which is practically a crime in this house.
“Maybe he needs to go for a walk. Why don’t you take him down to the river for some fresh air?” Ada, his mom, suggests gently.
Their house is a beautiful cottage-style home right in the heart of Magnolia Springs, with the spring-fed lake as their backyard. It’s the kind of place pulled from the glossypage of a southern design magazine—cozy and a little magical. We pass the enclosed patio, stepping into the open air, the grassy yard sprawling wide under majestic oak trees. The branches stretch like arms above us, draped with white garden lights that sway softly in the breeze. It’s straight out of a small-town-of-my-dreams movie.
Their backyard is goals, if I do say so myself. When we were little, Livie, Bee, and I used to pretend we’d get married right here in this very yard. We planned every detail—where we’d set up the decorations, the colors of the bridesmaids’ dresses, even the exact square of grass where the dance floor would go. We believed it would be Livie’s wedding venue, but she ended up getting married in Atlanta, somewhere more practical, where both her family and Alex’s could get to easily. It was beautiful, of course, but still—every time I walk under these lights, I think of our girlish dreams.
We follow the path—or really, Mateo leads, and I trail behind, trying to catch up with his strange silence. He’s so oddly quiet, and I don’t understand what changed. He was fine this morning, before dinner, laughing with me in the car. Maybe it was the food? He did barely eat. It can’t be work—he took time off again for the holidays.
“Teo, baby, wait!” I call out, my voice sharper than I intend. He’s all the way to the dock and stops the second he hears me.
He turns, and my breath catches.Holy shit.He looks so devastatingly hot in the moonlight. Filthy thoughts flash through my head: I could one hundred percent strip him and suck him off right here. The image makes me flush, and I shake it off. Obviously, his parents are twenty yards away inside. Definitely not the vibe. I press out a shaky laugh and exhale.
The night is chilly, the kind of crisp that sneaksthrough clothes. Despite my long-sleeve shirt and leggings—I’m choosing comfort these days, because the food here is too good to waste energy worrying about how my jeans or dress fit—the cold breeze prickles at my unshaved legs.
