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21
“Seriously, Bronte?” Chris growled, rattling the colored twinkle lights in his hand. “You asked me to pick up lights for you. I did. I’m not returning them.”
She sat cross-legged on her living room floor, meticulously organized decorations scattered around her. “I didn’t think you’d come home with those big, atrocious bulbs.”
“I like them. They’re retro, like the ones in A Christmas Story.”
“And your taste is as bad as the dad in that movie. Do you want me to put a leg lamp in my window, too?”
“I’m surprised you got that reference,” he said with a sniff and threw his hands up. “They’re tree lights, for Christ’s sake, not…” He glanced around the room, obviously struggling for an argument. “Kitchen appliances or something.”
She motioned to her red, gold, and white decorations, an obvious color palette. Neon orange, blue, and green did not belong on her tree.
With another huff, he stuffed them back into the box. “Then you return them.”
“Fine. I will.”
Behind her, she heard him toss the box on her kitchen table then open and close her refrigerator, popping the top to his favorite diet soda. She’d been stocking up on it since they’d gotten together.
After a quiet minute with only Bing Crosby singing in the background, he dropped down next to her. “Sorry I snapped at you.”
“Me too.”
He propped his chin on her shoulder, watching her carefully unwrap glittery ornaments. “I’m really stressed out. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“What are you stressed about?”
“TheGildedCage. I have to go to New York City for a few days. I’ve got a meeting with the director. They want to do some screen tests.”
She stopped fiddling with the baubles. This wasn’t a surprise. He had given her the script to read for her opinion on it, and they had talked about him eventually going back to work. Although what they hadn’t talked about was how their relationship was going to work when they lived on opposite ends of the country. Neither one of them seemed ready to burst their bubble with reality. Bronte certainly wasn’t. “Screen tests are good?”
He nuzzled into her neck. “Really good. They signed Ruthie Van Acker as the lead, so they want to see how our chemistry is.”
The mention of chemistry had her climbing into his lap like a cat. They’d watched his rom-com Pretty Little Thing the other night. Or, more accurately, she watched it; he put on headphones to listen to an audiobook. Clearly, he made a great romantic lead. “I’m sure you could have chemistry with a two-by-four.”
Gathering her hair in his fist, he tugged on it until she met his curious gaze. “Why do I feel like that wasn’t a compliment?”
“When I watched your movies, it wasn’t you. It was like, I don’t know, some other person on-screen, but thinking about how you’ll be kissing another woman—”
“It’s not real.”
“No, I know. I know. But I also know you have love scenes, and it’s weird to think about you doing that.” Her hands crept up his shirt, the material bunching under her fingers at his shoulders. “Someone is being paid to put their hands on you.”
“And you feel like you’re missing out?” he joked. “You’re touching me for free.”
She ignored his attempt to sidetrack her. “I know it’s your job, and you’ll be excellent as Roy, but wouldn’t you feel the least bit jealous or uncomfortable if it were me? What if it were part of my job to make out with the parents of my students?”
Releasing her hair, he wrapped his hands around her jaw. “I’m really glad you don’t have to.”
“So, you agree? It would be weird for you?”
He pressed one soft kiss to her lips. “I get it. I do. The only thing I can say is when I would have to prepare for those scenes, I need motivation. I would need to draw on inspiration for that big monologue at the end when he’s trying to prove his love, and where do you think I’d get it from?” When her eyes dropped to his throat, he tipped her chin up, forcing her focus to him. “You. It might be someone else’s story, I might be dressed as a different person, saying the words written by someone else, but I will always be thinking about you.”
Reassured, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “When are you going?”
“The twenty-seventh. I’ll be back for New Year’s.”
“Okay.” She ran her hand over his beard, her fingers digging into it. It had grown past hot mountain man and now bordered on Old Testament proportions. “I’m really proud of you,” she said, and by the way he smiled, she would have thought she’d told him he was going to work with Robert Redford, his idol. “And I say this with all the affection and encouragement in my heart, but—” she gulped, and he frowned, probably expecting something other than “—I think it’s time to get rid of the beard.”
