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He laughs. “No, it isn’t.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Twenty years you two have had a thing for each other, Jessie. This won’t be over in two weeks, for either of you.”
“It will.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Yeah, actually.” It’s a sure thing, so what do I want from this? “When it’s over next week, you have to let it go. And I want bourbon maple ice cream from that place in New Haven. At least a couple of pints.” I want to ask for gallons, but I won’t be able to fit it in my freezer. Maybe I should ask him to buy me one of those chest freezers and fill it up.
No, my apartment is too small.
Timothy’s thinking, tapping a finger against his chin. “And if it isn’t over, I officiate your wedding.”
That’s never happening, so I hold my hand out and we shake.
Chapter twenty-seven
Nic
Jessie’spainting.
She set up a small easel near the dining room window and I’ve been watching her as I bake a pecan pie. There’s a soft expression on her face that sometimes shifts into a faraway smile or a deep look of concentration. She’s happy, and that makes me happy.
She’s still wearing my shirt from this morning, along with a soft-looking gray cardigan, and it fills me with this warm, full-to-bursting feeling. Her messy waves are caught up in a twist. One determined strand keeps falling free, only for her to absently tuck it up again.
There’s something about Jessie painting while I bake that feels like home. The gently falling snow outside and the warm aromas of Christmas dinner cooking away add to the domesticity. I want to push pause on today and live in this moment for a while.
That’s why you love me.
Jessie was joking, but I wonder if maybe I do, or if I could love her one day.
I was so sure about Addison though—or I thought I was at the time—and I was so wrong. That was fast too. We were only together for a short time before I proposed. I wanted to settle down so badly that I couldn’t see that we wanted different things. Neither of us would bend or compromise, and the bitterness that grew because of it isn’t something I want to experience again. The hurt and shame of her betrayal. How public it all was.
Jessie’s been a part of my life, one way or another, for a long time. I don’t want to confuse the affection we’ve found for something deeper. I don’t want Jessie to reach the same conclusions about me that Addison did.
No. I need to be certain, and right now, I’m not.
Liam edges into the kitchen, and without a word I grab the container full of Christmas cookies, peeling the lid off. He takes two, gives me a thumbs up, and leaves. I put the container back on a shelf—where Amanda put it an hour ago to keep the kids from ruining their appetites—and stick my pie in the oven.
I start cleaning up. Celia will be in here soon to put the finishing touches on Christmas dinner. When I’m finished, I walk over to stand behind Jessie, slipping my arms around her waist and nuzzling into her neck. She makes an annoyed little noise at the interruption but leans against me as we stare at the paper she’s taped to the board. Leaves and flowers, shapes and scribbles.
“Practice,” she says simply.
I have no idea if she’s rusty and needs to practice or if she’s just scared—Jessie has so much talent everything looks great to me. It’s unfair she’s gotten such little recognition for her skill when I’ve become a household name despite my lack of any.
I kiss her neck and breathe in the rich, sweet smell of her skin. “When I practice, I get worse.”
Jessie laughs.
“Serious. I overthink. It comes across on film.”
“No way,” she says in a monotone.
I tickle her for that and she squeals, but when she settles in my arms with a happy sigh, I close my eyes. I started telling her, on the walk home from Bawdy Carols, about the problems waiting for me back in LA. We were interrupted by the snowball fight and to be honest, I haven’t spent much time thinking about it. Jessie’s taken up all the space in my head.
“I’m thinking about quitting,” I say after a minute. “You asked the other day if I loved acting, and I didn’t answer. I don’t.”
