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I glare at him. “Seriously?”
His smile stretches wide. “Seriously.”
I reach for it, and he stretches his arm high in the air where I absolutely cannot get it. I’m not five, so I’m not about to jump either. But I’m tempted. Sorely tempted. It’s not like I’m on his list, so I don’t know why I care. “Well,” I say in my best dignified voice, taking a step away from him and clasping my hands behind my back. “I hope it was a fun activity for you.”
A mischievous glint flashes in his eyes. “Thrilling.”
Thrilling? What in the world does he mean by that? He’s being facetious and messing with me. I don’t take the bait and force myself back to my cookies. Rockwell assists me in prepping squeeze bottles with royal icing.
I can’t stop thinking about his list. It’s hidden safely in his back pocket, and I doubt he’s planning on pulling it out for me to see later. “Can’t you give me a single hint about your list?” I suddenly say.
Rockwell laughs before suddenly sobering. “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
I’m not expecting the tables to turn. “Uh . . . mine is boring. Total snoozefest. Not worth your time.”
He shrugs. “Then this is off-limits. I put my heart wish on here.”
Heart wish? Did that phrase come out of Rockwell’s mouth? And what the heck does it mean?
“Unless you’re revealing yours,” he continues, “this baby stays with me. I’m not letting it out of my sight until Christmas. Which is too bad because I may not be a writer, but this list is more poetic to my soul than Shakespeare.”
I hold back every urge I have to fall to my knees and beg. “Keep it.” The two words come out strangled and forced, but nothing is going to entice me to give him my list.
He shrugs. “Fine. It’s your loss. Don’t try anything, either.” He raises his brows. “I mean, you cantry, but you’ll fail.”
Does it make me normal or not normal if I admit his words sound like a challenge? I had to know his list before, but now I might actually die if I don’t.
An hour and half later, we’re finished, and my mess is cleaned up. You’ve guessed it, I’m still thinking about his list. Correction, I’m obsessing about it. He has two and a half days left in Bearwood, and I don’t think he’s concerned about leaving me. I, on the other hand, distinctly remember how lonely I was before he showed up. I’m not ready for him to leave. And the idiot probably didn’t put me on his list! Why do I care so much about a silly catalog of wants meant for the garbage?
Heart wish?
I’m losing my mind.
“You seem distracted,” Rockwell says, draping a wash rag on the sink. “You’re not still thinking about my Christmas list, are you?”
“Of course . . . not.” That was the hardest lie of my life.
“I guess I’m the only one. You were right about this being an important tradition. I don’t think I’ve ever had a wish I wanted more.” He pulls the list out again, rubbing his thumb over it like it’s a winning lottery ticket and holding it just out of my reach.
I know he’s taunting me. Should I tackle him again and go for the paper? I’m contemplating my odds when my roomies barge in. They freeze momentarily when they see me and Rockwell. Yikes, I’m hovering like I’m ready to pounce on him. I straighten and that seems to cue them to take over the couch. No one can mistake their excited faces. They think they’re going to witness some entertainment.
“What’s going on, ladies?” I say, coming over to them. My voice might not be as welcoming as my words, and my wide, pointed stare doesn’t help. It’s not like I don’t want them here, but I am super busy trying to think of ways to see Rockwell’s list and would prefer if they left again. Unfortunately, they live here too, so there’s not a lot I can do about it other than hint or beg.
Jocelyn shrugs. “We hurried home to tell you the latest Wassail drama, but it looks like you’re busy.”
I guess I can put the list obsession on hold for a minute for the sake of Wassail Night. “How is there drama?” I ask, my eyes disobediently flicking back to Rockwell’s hand and the paper he’s holding. “Everything was fine last night.”
“It only takes a minute to break a leg.”
“What?” Now they have my complete attention.
“Who broke their leg?” Rockwell sits on the ottoman, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankle.
“Sam Henderson,” Jocelyn says.
“Poor guy,” I mutter just before groaning. “Wait. He’s in charge of the Snowball Slam event. It’s a crowd favorite. Who’s the backup?”
“No one,” Gabby says. “Cathy is taking her first year as president very seriously and is insisting on background checks and a history of volunteer work with kids for safety purposes. Town Hall says we can’t get a background check completed by tomorrow night, aka Christmas Eve. They’re short staffed.”
