Page 74 of Big Santa

She smiles. My palm is against her cheek before I realize I’ve moved.

Her smile disappears.

Not because she’s upset.

Because she’s looking at me.

Really looking.

My thumb brushes beneath her eye, catching the last tear.

Neither of us moves. The air changes. Her gaze drops to my mouth. Mine drops to hers.

I could kiss her.

The realization is so immediate, so certain, that my entire body goes tight. I want to kiss my wife. I want to do a hell of a lot more than kiss her.

Her lips part.

For one second, I think she’s going to move closer. For one second, I almost do.

Then the contract flashes through my mind. No physical expectations. No romantic obligations. She agreed to this marriage because I promised her that. I don’t want to put her in a position where she thinks she owes me any of that.

I drop my hand.

Noelle blinks.

“It’s late,” I say.

Her expression changes. “Right.” She scrambles off of me.

I stand and hold out my hand.

She looks at it for a second before placing hers in mine. I pull her up. And immediately regret it.

Because momentum brings her against me again.

Her free hand lands on my chest. My hand catches her waist. We freeze.

She’s so close. Too close and not close enough, all at the same time.

Her eyes lift to mine.

I let go first. Because I want to be the good guy. The one who does right by her.

“Goodnight, Noelle.”

She takes a step back. “Goodnight, Maverick.” She turns toward the stairs.

I watch her go. I shouldn’t, but I do.

She disappears around the corner.

I stand alone beside the Christmas tree for another thirty seconds.

Then I look down at the ornament still sitting on the blanket where she left it. I pick it up carefully. On the back, in faded black marker, someone has written:

For our Noelle. Our best Christmas gift.