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It took me a half an hour just to sit upright. In doing so, I found a bottle of water and some pain meds on the shabby chic nightstand.
I took them then curled back down in bed until the slamming in my temples eased, unable to even keep my eyes open until the meds started to kick in about half an hour later.
Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes, prepared—I thought—for anything.
Except this strange room, apparently.
With its four poster white bed that matched the white, but distressed, shabby chic nightstands, its floral wallpaper, its grandma-style white lace curtains, and its little sitting area toward the front windows with its green velvet fainting couch.
“What the hell…” I mumbled to myself as I pushed up on the bed, noting the white bedspread with dainty little flowers in the pattern that looked suspiciously like they matched the wallpaper.
What in the weird, cheesy inn was going on here?
I mean, Bellamy had good taste.
This made no sense.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I tested the strength in my thighs until I was sure they could hold my weight before getting up and moving toward the half-opened door. Inside, I found the bathroom. With its charming clawfoot tub, pedestal sink, and yet more wallpaper. At least it was a different pattern than the bedroom, though.
I went inside for a minute, wiping the smeared makeup from under my eyes and opening up the sealed mini mouthwash to get the cottonmouth breath to go away.
Satisfied, I went back into the hallway, ready to go find Bellamy and ask him what the hell was going on.
I was one footstep into the hallway when I heard it.
Christmas music.
I don’t know why that surprised me.
It was the season, after all.
But I guess something inside of me started to sense something when I heard it.
I was at the stairs when I heard the muffled sound of voices. One of them had better be Bellamy or I was going to be so pissed I’d left the room.
The stairs led down into the kitchen at the back of the house or inn or whatever it was. It was an open space that was cluttered with knick-knacks and various cooking accoutrement.
And, thankfully, a coffee pot that still had the light on.
I made myself a cup, feeling a little more alive a moment later, and possibly more prepared to face whatever was going on in the front of the building. Possibly. You never knew. One moment, Bellamy could be one of the sanest, most rational people you ever met. The next, he was suggesting we take the jet to Paris for dinner. Like that wasn’t the most absurd thing.
Rolling a crick out of my neck, I made my way down the hallway that ran along the front center staircase.
To the right was a dining room with a long, set table.
To the left was the living room.
And there was Bellamy.
Wearing the ugliest freaking white, green, and red Christmas sweater I’d ever seen.
Catching me moving into the doorway, his head whipped over.
And the man beamed at me.
I wasn’t a cheesy type of person, but when that man gave me that look, I melted a little inside.
“There you are!” another voice cheered, making my head jerk over.
Because I knew that voice.
That was my aunt’s voice.
Before I even fully understood my intentions, I was rushing into the room, right there to Bellamy’s side.
“You didn’t!” I hissed, eyes huge. “Tell me you didn’t drug my family!”
“Of course not, love. Just you,” he added, pressing a kiss to my temple as his arm went across my lower back.
“We were wondering when you would grace us with your presence,” my uncle added, looking up from the strand of popcorn and cranberries he was stringing.
Beside him was Nasir who was counting the popcorn puffs because the pattern had to be correct. Even doing a fun, relaxing activity, he found something to be anxious about. The lovable freak.
“I, ah, I don’t know what’s going on,” I admitted to my family, shaking my head.
“Bellamy told us that he got you a little tipsy before he flew you here,” my aunt said, shooting him her motherly smile. “Isn’t it all so wonderful?”
“I… I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know what it is yet.”
“It’s your dream, love,” Bellamy said, his arm giving me a squeeze.
“My dream?”
“You once told me that you wanted a Christmas in a Victorian house in New England. Here is the house,” he said, waving grandly at it. “We are in Maine. You said you wanted snow. There are about five inches on the ground now. But there is a big storm heading here over the next two days.”
“You… you created my dream?” I asked, having to blink hard to fight back the tears that threatened to flood my eyes.
“I can’t make any promises about the cooking,” he told me, shrugging. “You and your aunt will have to figure that out. But I got all the supplies. And—“ he started, getting cut off by the front door bursting open, bringing in a burst of cold air.
