Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
One moment I was fine and the next I was looking out the window at the gorgeous lights and blanket of snow outside, wondering why I was alone as the sounds of O Come All Ye Faithful floated down the street.
Somewhere in that time, as I was wondering if I should say screw it and go to bed early, my phone vibrated.
>>Casey: Hey, stranger. You at home?
I furrowed my brow, looking at my phone like it was glitching. Why would he be texting me to ask if I was home? And why did he care where I was?
>>Rome: Yes. The carolers are on my street, and they’re very talented.
>>Casey: I’m going to drop something off in five minutes. If you don’t want to see me, I’ll just leave it at the door. Up to you, Rome. Oh, and merry Christmas.
I stared at the screen again frozen in place for a moment before bursting into action. I was willing to bet Justin had told Casey my address for this exact reason—he’d called me earlier today and said that he’d send “a special delivery” later. But I didn’t know it would be freaking hand-delivered, and by Casey, no less. I was nowhere near prepared to be anything but alone right now.
One look at myself in my bedroom mirror and I groaned, running my fingers through my hair. I pulled a sweater over the old Rolling Stones t-shirt I was wearing, and ran to the bathroom to splash my face with water and run a comb through my hair.
I was clean, at least, even if I looked like a guy who’d just spent Christmas Day alone.
The doorbell rang way too soon. I pulled in a slow breath, trying to compose myself.
He’s just trying to do something nice for you. No big deal. Just accept whatever the gift is, thank him, and say Merry Christmas.
I got to the door and swung it open to see Casey wearing a crimson sweater, a white scarf, and holding a big white box. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and the moment I made eye contact with him, all hopes of acting “normal” flew right out the doorway past him.
“Oh, I know exactly what that is,” I said, looking down at the box.
“Justin said you would,” Casey told me. “Anyway, Merry Christmas, Rome.”
“Come inside,” I said quickly.
He bit his lower lip. I could see the hesitation all over his face, and half of me felt it, too.
I shouldn’t invite him in.
And I knew I was going to.
“You sure?” Casey asked.
“Those cinnamon rolls aren’t going to eat themselves.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips and it instantly melted some fraction of my heart. I let him in and led him to the kitchen, pulling out a chair for him to sit at the table in there.
“Whoa,” he said, looking all around as he walked in and set the cinnamon rolls down on the table. “I should have seen your kitchen before I decided on my own tile finishes. This is gorgeous, Rome.”
“This kitchen is the result of many, many years of effort,” I said. I was so used to my own kitchen that I’d forgotten how far it had come—I’d outfitted it with new countertops years ago, and I’d leaned into the Spanish style of tiles that the floor already had.
“It’s so colorful. And unique. But it all works together so well.”
“I’m glad to see it through your eyes,” I said. “Damn, it really has been a while since I’ve had someone over.”
I showed him the tiles I’d sourced from Portugal, the wood venetian blinds on the windows that had been a bitch to install, and the various kitchen magnets I had collected from travels over the years. Within a few minutes I was relaxing again.
This was Casey, after all. I always seemed to feel comfortable talking with him, even if there was an undercurrent of longing that I had to bite back at every moment.
He walked back over to the box of cinnamon rolls, opening it up.
“So, do you want to dig in?” he said. “I didn’t have dessert at my mom’s house and these look pretty enticing, to be honest.”
“Hey,” I said, walking over and batting his hand away as he tried to take out one of the cinnamon rolls. “Hell, no. That’s not how you do it.”
He looked up at me, confused. “There are rules for these cinnamon rolls?”
I walked over to my oven, turning it on to 300 degrees. “There are absolutely rules. You have to heat them up, and you have to have them with a glass of something good, whether it’s coffee, tea, or liquor.”
Casey smiled again. “You’re very particular about things, you know. I don’t even want to know what you’d have done if I showed up at your door, Christmas night, with a piña colada in my hand.“