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He kisses my forehead, his stubble tickling my face. "Now you're beginning to understand."
Because we're now "engaged,"our families don't mind if we sleep in each other's rooms. Both my mom and his family are progressive and non-traditional—they'd all come to Paradise Beach decades ago when it was something of a hippie commune-like outpost. Why I thought they'd care is beyond me now that we're actually together.
So we fall into a routine: I work nights at the bar, Damien picks me up. On my days off we sometimes hang out with his military contractor friends on the mainland—his company's based in Tampa, so he knows plenty of people all over the region—or we head to his house or mine for movies, snacks, and snuggling.
And sex.
I'd been worried that one or both of us would get bored.Not because I could imagine a day when I would be bored with Damien and his panty-melting bedroom skills, but I assumed that's what happens when couples spend a ton of time together.
That is not happening with us.
Our wildest times are at his house, where his bedroom is mercifully on another floor, far from where his Mom and Dad sleep. Sometimes we also go to "our" suite at the resort, when we want privacy.
Tonight it's two days before Christmas, and I'm at his house, in his room. I suspect something's up because he's been more quiet than usual since picking me up from the bar.
"So," I plop on his bed, crossing my legs. "Want to watch a movie?The Grinch, maybe?"
I've come to discover that when Damien is nervous or thinking or nervously thinking, he chews on the inside of his cheek. It makes his lips pout adorably, and when they do, I long to kiss his worries away.
I extend my arms in his direction. "Come here."
He shakes his head, which makes my stomach fizz uncomfortably. Things have been going ridiculously well with us. Too well. Sometimes I forget that we're getting married so I can have health insurance. He's been generously paying for my blood washing treatments, and I keep telling him I'll pay him back.
Maybe he's realizing that having a wedding under these circumstances is a stupid idea. Or maybe he's decided he's not that into me, after all. I have enough baggage to keep a small jet from taking off.
"Stay there. I've gotta grab something in the other room." His voice, which is normally velvety and low, is uncharacteristically rough and crackling.
"Okay," I chirp. When I'm nervous, my voice tends to rise in octave.
I watch as he walks out of the room, admiring his butt inthose faded jeans and his broad shoulders in the dark blue hoodie. Will he wear a tux at the wedding? We haven't yet talked about that—his mom is handling almost everything, and Mom and I are going dress shopping next week, hoping to scoop up an after-Christmas sale.
Mom's good with a needle, so any alterations will be done by her—if she's up for it. Lately she's been exhausted from her treatments.
I sit on the bed for several long minutes, looking at my phone. First, I check in with Mom, who says she's watching a movie with Beau. That guy's really picking up the slack with her care, and I've warmed up to him.
Swiping over to Instagram, I see that my best friend Lauren has arrived in Paris and will be spending Christmas there at some hotel, partying with people she doesn't know. I admire her extrovert nature, her ability to make friends with anyone in a second.
The photos she posted of the white-silver holiday decorations everywhere are incredible. I scroll through her Instagram feed, and something dawns on me.
I'm not jealous. When I first came home to Paradise, I'd been practically Grinch-colored with envy whenever I saw her gorgeous social media pictures. I couldn't wait to be on the road with her, experiencing all those new things.
And now? I feel joy—for her.
It's not that I don't want to see the world. I do. But this past month I've been happier than I've been in years, and my desire to do anything but live in the moment is low.
Which makes me all the more worried that Damien is pacing his kitchen, trying to muster the courage to break it off.
The door swings open. "Hey," he says, voice soft.
He's toting a large gold gift bag and climbs on the bed, knee-walking to me.
"Merry Christmas."
I beam. All of my fear ebbs away. "You should've told me we were exchanging gifts tonight. Yours is back at the house." I'd bought him a military history book—he's been on a kick, reading about the American Revolution. I'm also planning to make him the most kick-ass Nutella brownies he's ever eaten in his life.
"We've got tomorrow. And Christmas. I couldn't wait."
When I open the bag, a little squeal escapes my lips. Inside is a book. I pull it out and gasp.
