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“Yeah, Wassail Night’s not happening. I’d rather write a list.”
As long as Rockwell puts me at the top of his list. I smirk. Maybe I had better write it for him. I wouldn’t want to risk it otherwise. I should be leaning into what my heart is telling me about the two of us; instead, I want proof that something’s happening. Concrete proof. The list is an easy fix. I imagine how insightful it will be.
“What’s the smile for? It’s just a list, right?”
I straighten my face. “Just a list.”
“For stuff I want?”
“Or dreams you hope for, or even relationships . . .” Shoot! Why did I say that? I wipe my hands on my apron because cleaning them off long enough for this activity is entirely worth it.
Rockwell moves behind me. “I see a notebook over here. I’ll get a paper.”
I follow where he’s looking and realize he’s sauntering toward my Kismet notebook. “Wait!” I yelp.
But Rockwell doesn’t wait.
I sprint around the counter and instead of leaping like the dancer I am, I dive like the baseball player I am not. I’m desperate to get to him before he sees my list of wishes all about him. One arm lands around his waist and the other around a leg.
Rockwell grunts at the unexpected contact but keeps moving the last foot to the TV despite me dragging every pound of my body to stop him. He picks up the notebook. “What’s the matter, Briezy? I thought you wanted me to write a Christmas list?”
I release him and snatch the notebook back.
He lets me with a deep laugh. “You’re serious about this aren’t you?”
I nod through my winded breathing. “It’s an important Christmas tradition.” Then I swat some straggly hair out of my eyes from my embarrassing tackle.
He narrows his eyes. “Wait, are you trying to hideyourChristmas list from me?”
“What a ridiculous idea.” I rip a page from my Kismet notebook and find a pen and a book for him to write on.
He takes the supplies, amusement dancing in every annoyingly handsome feature. Oh, he so owes me the best list ever. I reluctantly retreat to wash my hands so I can get back to the cookies. I take my notebook with me, stashing it in a drawer. It’s killing me not to watch over his shoulders, but I resist.
“How many things should I write down?” he asks as he takes a seat on the couch.
I stick a pan of cookies in the oven. “It’s your list, not mine.”
Rockwell taps the pen on his jaw a few times and grins.
Why is he smiling like that? “Do you, uh, need help?”
“It’s my list, not yours,” he throws back with a teasing voice.
I smirk. He’s not very funny. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
He doesn’t though. He takes the task very seriously and stays bent over his paper for a good fifteen minutes. Occasionally, I catch him looking at me. It’s a serious, pondering look. I really wish I knew what he was thinking.
I get another two pans of cookies cut and ready to bake. “What’s taking so long?”
“I’m finished.”
My lack of patience is obvious. “How many things did you ask for? A hundred?” I dust off my hands on my now covered apron. “Never mind, come show me.”
He holds it to his heart with exaggeration. “Absolutely not.”
I’m not prepared for his answer. I try to imagine what’s on his list. A home gym? His mom moving to the city with him? My curiosity cooks faster than the cookies, and I’m burning to know. I hurry over to him. “Tell me one thing then.”
“Nope, sorry. It’s for Santa’s eyes only.”
