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Unable to resist, I smile. Memories of my teenage boyfriend have stayed with me for nearly seven years. What can I say? I only fell once, but I fell hard.
I tap my pen on the notebook, too focused on the juvenility of the wish. Then on a whim, I don’t hold back.
#1. I want Rockwell Davenport for Christmas.
Once I start, I can’t stop.
#2. I want him to take me to the family Christmas party so I don’t have to be lame and go alone. Again.
#3. I want him to dance with me.
#4. I want him to kiss me under the mistletoe.
#5. I want the happily ever after we didn’t get the first time.
I laugh at myself because it would be stupid to cry. Obviously, if Rockwell and I were meant to be, he wouldn’t have done something completely out of character and broken my heart. I wish I hated him, but I don’t. I’ve just missed him for a really long time.
I wonder why I didn’t put buying my own house or renting the studio down the street to teach dance on my list. Those at least are things I could control if I worked hard enough. But this isn’t a beginning-of-the-school-year goal sheet. It’s a Christmas list. It’s supposed to be filled with impossible things.
I shut the notebook and set it on the ottoman, exchanging it for the remote. I think I have maxed out on self-pity and need a distraction. Right before I hit the play button, my doorbell rings. The noise makes me jump, and I spill some of my popcorn on the couch.
I glance at my phone. It’s ten o’clock. Even when my roommates are home, I don’t like answering the door late at night. Call me a scaredy-cat because the name fits perfectly.
Should I ignore the bell? I’m not exactly dressed for company. And who would visit me this time of night? But maybe I need a friend to snap me out of my dead-end head space. It would mean opening the door . . .
I reach for the baseball bat I keep under my sofa. I’m not crazy, just careful. I also keep one under my bed as well and have pepper spray on my keychain. A girl with minimal muscle mass has to be prepared. I teach first grade, so I am good at squatting by desks, but that’s about it. I creep to the door with my bat over my shoulder.
“Who is it?” I call.
The answer is mumbled.
Crap. I thought it would work.
I decide to open the door an inch, keeping my toe up against it in case I need to shut it fast and hold it shut. Unlocking the door first, I start to pull it open enough to peek out. What I see makes me nearly fall through the doorway. As it is, I let it swing open wide.
Rockwell Davenport is standing on my doorstep. He is far more handsome than he was as a teenager. His shoulders fill out his once gangly form, a thin line of scruff spreads across his jaw, and his once shaggy hair is now short and combed back. His expensive suit and the cocky way he carries himself only add to my picture-perfect view.
I gape, my mouth refusing to close.
Holy kismet.
Chapter 2
Rockwell
Someonemusthaveputsomething in my cocoa on the plane. Or maybe I’m sleepwalking from my long drive from the airport. Either way, I can't believe what I'm seeing.
Travis said my temporary neighbor manages the duplex and has my key, but he didn’t tell me the name of said neighbor. Maybe I should’ve asked. No, I definitely should’ve asked.
The last person I expect to be standing on the other side of the door from me is Brie Holland.
Correction: Brie Holland holding a baseball bat.
Travis, I thought we were friends.
“Rocky?”
I swallow because the cold must be doing something to my tongue, slowing my response. No one has called me Rocky in a long time. Brie is the one person I hopednotto run into while in Bearwood. She might be the only good thing I remember about this backward town, but she has to despise me for what I did to her. I shiver on her doorstep, and I’m not sure it’s from the cold. Her brunette hair is in a messy bun on the top of her head, and she’s wearing an oversized Christmas Mickey Mouse T-shirt and clashing hot-pink sweatpants. And if possible, she’s never looked better. Adult Brie is an understated knockout. She stares at me with those bright, wintery blues, and I stare right back.
