Page 121 of Merging Wright

“I’ll make popcorn.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder.

Jane is still hugging her new plant to her chest. Lifting it, she nods to the staircase. “I’ll take this upstairs and meet you in ten minutes on the couch.”

“It’s a date.” I wink. Her mouth pops open but I don’t allow her to respond. I turn on my heels toward the kitchen feeling like a fucking king.

I have a couch date with my wife.

56

Playlist: “All I Want for Christmas Is You” – Lady A version

[Jane]

The town is a buzz of energy as the holiday season is upon us. Hope fills the air despite the fire a month ago. No culprit has been caught. No motive detected. The paint and turpentine in the vacant shop were to blame this time.

However, Myles doesn’t believe it. That storefront was locked up tight, he’d said. Myles also informed me that Mach eventually told Landon and him about the near break-in at Adventure Dex, and attempts were made to better patrol Bridge Alley. After learning about Frank’s intentions, Mach has become more diligent in questioning things.

To my surprise, the brothers quietly exist without shared scowls or Mach’s bark. I’ve even noticed them talking without crossed arms or defensive body language. I haven’t asked Mach about their relationship, because as much as I’m curious, I can’t become involved. I need to keep myself as separate as I can from Mach and emotions.

With his flowers and five-fact notes, and couch dates, each day grows more difficult to ignore him, though. He’s sweet when he wants to be. Even—dare I say—romantic. But I’m convinced his actions are a result of remorse about the partnership offering. True to our agreement, he continues the façade of marriage. A hand on my lower back as we talk to business owners in town or a kiss to my temple before he leaves me to work on one of our remaining projects. Public displays of affection were not part of our arrangement. Mach said it from the start that we didn’t need PDA.

So, it’s all very confusing.

Thankfully, the town progresses. We hadn’t turned on the string of lights zigzagging over Bridge Alley yet, waiting on a lighting ceremony that coincides with Kringle Fest. The festival is next weekend.

This year, I invited local artisans and food trucks to sell wares and delicacies, hoping to bring more interest to Wrightwood. The idea comes from a festival in downtown Chicago held every year before Christmas. It’s ambitious for a first year especially after the fire, but I have faith it’s what Wrightwood needs.

The storefronts of Trixie’s Trim and the vacant shop have been repaired for aesthetic reasons, but boards cover their window spaces. I have an idea for that as well. I want Wrightwood to have the merriest of Christmases.

Only one part of me remains unsettled in this town. Willow.

Landon gave me more perspective on her uncle. Theo Clarke isn’t a bad man. He’s just negligent. He works hard. He sleeps on his days off. In many ways, he reminds me of my granddad, and I’m certain the responsibility of a small child is the last thing he wanted as a bachelor in his mid-sixties.

As I’m inside the future Riverbank Mercantile Co., Willow wanders in.

“Hey, baby girl.” I rise from where I’ve been unpacking boxes and step over to her, crouching down to offer her a hug since I’ve spent more time with her, and the community knows who I am. Willow hugs me back.

Mach is also in the store, surprisingly working beside his brother to hang replicas of tin ceiling tiles to provide an antiquated effect in place of modern drop-ceiling panels. He gazes over at me with Willow and offers a warm smile. The struggle to fight the pull to him is real. He’s wearing me down one house plant and pretty note at a time. Not to mention, watching him work beside his brother is a total turn on. His inked arms flexing. His thighs stabilizing him on a ladder. His backside snug in jeans.

Tugging my gaze away from Mach when he catches me checking him out, I shift my focus back to Willow. “So, what are you asking Santa for this Christmas?”

Willow leans against me as I kneel on the floor. Her eyes drop to my collar, and she fiddles with the edge of my shirt.

“Santa isn’t coming this year.” Her quiet voice rings with sadness.

“Santa isn’t coming?” Will Theo not take on the role?

“He isn’t real anyway,” Willow adds.

I gasp. She’s too young to be so jaded. She should still believe in magic and the holiday season. Jostling her against me, I tickle her belly. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because Mommy and Daddy are gone.”

Heart. Break.

She isn’t even being a Scrooge or a Grinch; she just knows the truth. Without her parents, she doesn’t have anyone to be that mystery all children need. A belief that being good has its rewards and humanity is decent.

“Well, I might have a special connection to Santa. So why don’t you tell me what you want?”