Page 23 of Unwrapped

“No.”

“Does somebody inherit a struggling bakery?”

“Vince!”

I build a fire while she makes hot chocolate, then we settle onto the couch with a blanket and a plate of leftover Christmas cookies between us. Outside, the snow has started falling again, and the lights on the deck illuminate the flakes drifting past the windows.

The movie turns out to be exactly the sort of thing I expected, complete with an improbable romance, an irritating misunderstanding and a town Christmas festival that employs half the local population. Sophie loves every minute of it.

“See?” she says after a particularly ridiculous scene. “Romance.”

By the time the credits roll, we’re both comfortable enough to argue about whether the ending made any sense. Sophie insists it was perfect. I point out that the entire conflict could have been resolved with a five-minute telephone call.

“You’re a lawyer,” she says. “Of course you think that.” She grins and reaches for another cookie.

It's been a good day. I've enjoyed the shopping, and even the movie, though I'll deny that last part if she asks. Sophie seems to have enjoyed herself too. It's a relief, actually, to realize we can still spend a day together like this, laughing and enjoying each other's company, without my imagination getting the better of me.

“Same time tomorrow?” she asks, holding up the remote.

“Absolutely not.”

“Great. I'll pick something.”

I laugh and reach for the last Christmas cookie. If tomorrow turns out anything like today, I don't think I'll have much to complain about.

Seven

DECEMBER 22

Sophie

I made myself come again last night thinking about him. I know I shouldn’t be writing this. And I know this is literally the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever written in here, but I need to get it out. I can’t tell anyone, obviously. My body is not getting the memo that this is completely off-limits.

In my fantasy, he’s behind me. I can feel his weight, his size, the heat of his skin against mine. He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me back against him, and his mouth is on my neck. His hand slides down over my stomach and finds me between my legs. He knows exactly how to touch me. He takes control, and he knows what I need without making me ask for it.

I came so hard I had to bite my hand to keep quiet, and then I just lay there feeling so fucked up.

God, this is mortifying. I am actually the worst.

The living room looks like a Christmas wrapping station exploded. I've claimed the coffee table for my presents, but somehow the paper, ribbons, tape and gift tags have spread all over the floor. Frank Sinatra is singing from the speakers, the tree is lit, and I’m drinking a pumpkin spice flavored tea. I am in the Christmas zone.

Vince appears in the doorway carrying a mug of coffee and a couple of small boxes. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, the shirt fitting snugly across his broad shoulders and muscular chest. It's ridiculous how good he looks in something so ordinary.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Sure.”

He sets his coffee on the side table and takes a roll of dark green wrapping paper from the bag beside his feet, unrolling enough to wrap one of his boxes.

“Who are you buying presents for?” I ask.

“A few people at the firm. Richard. My assistant.”

“That's nice. What did you get her?”

“A gift certificate and a bottle of champagne. I’ve already got those packaged up.”

“Very thoughtful. And appropriately expensive, I hope.”