Window Shopping, page 22
It’s our first best Christmas together. First of many over the decades.
And with her, each one is better than the last.
Epilogue
Stella
One Year Later
Fingers digging into the edge of my passenger seat, I turn to study Aiden’s profile. “I’m no longer sure this is a good idea.”
He takes one look at my face, frowns with concern and pulls our rental Jeep over to the side of the road, cutting off the engine. Without the wipers to clear the falling snow, white stuff immediately starts to block our view of the road. A familiar road. The one leading to my parents’ house.
Aiden reaches over, brushing a hand down the back of my hair. “It’s normal to be nervous, Stella. But everything is going to be fine.” He dips his head until he makes eye contact, giving me a lopsided smile. “Miracles happen on Christmas, don’t they? And really, we only need a quarter of a miracle here. We’re just opening the door with your parents. There’s no pressure on either of you to walk through it on the first try.”
Borrowing some calm from my steadfast boyfriend of one year, I take a deep breath and nod. I look out at the curving road, remembering the last time I was on it. My father had just picked me up outside of Bedford Hills and the air was tense. Temporary. He was bringing me home long enough to turn me around and send me in another direction. I understood. And not wanting to deal with their anger and disappointment, I’d remained silent. Distant. Closed off in my old room until it was time to go.
Has that lonely, directionless girl changed so much in a year?
Yeah.
I have.
Last Christmas Eve was the start of Stella Schmidt giving her whole self to life and love. I stayed with Aiden while helping Nicole find employment at a catering company. She lived in my uncle’s place for about two months before he broke up with his current girlfriend and decided to return, so we found Nicole a room to rent in a three-bedroom apartment in Astoria. She shares it with two other girls our age and they’ve become good friends. We still meet for dinner once a month and talk on the phone, but we’re individuals. She has her own life now and I have mine. Our relationship is a lot healthier and stronger because of it.
As far as my living situation…once I moved in with Aiden so Nicole could make use of my uncle’s apartment, I sort of never left.
He made it way too difficult.
For one, he redecorated little by little. Stella touches, he called them. He kept the throwback Mad Men vibe of his apartment, but it slowly became a bachelor and bachelorette pad. His coffee table was replaced by an ornate vintage trunk. He had an accent wall painted a black metallic color. He brought home the retro dress cage from my first Vivant window and positioned it in the corner of our bedroom…and that’s when I realized I’d started calling it our bedroom. Our apartment. He’d bamboozled me. Redecorated without actually mentioning he was making any changes. But one day I looked around and realized what he’d done.
“What are you thinking about?” Aiden asks me now, the pad of his thumb coasting across my bottom lip.
“I’m thinking about home.” I turn my head and kiss his wrist. “Our home in New York.”
His eyes go soft, searching, the way they do when he’s feeling romantic. So pretty much constantly. “What about it, sweetheart?”
I narrow my eyes at him, but I’m smiling. “How you Stella-fied it.”
The muscles shift in his throat. “Once I got you, I couldn’t let you leave.”
My heart starts to chug. “I was never going to leave.”
We reach for the collar of each other’s winter coats at the same time, pulling eagerly, our mouths locking over the center console. I can taste the hot chocolate we drank before entering Pennsylvania on his tongue, as if he needs any additional help being delicious. His big fingers spear into my hair and I unhook my seatbelt with trembling fingers, no idea what I’m intending, only knowing I need to get closer to him. Always closer.
“There was a motel a mile back—“
“I saw it,” he growls. We dive back into the kiss, my upper half leaning over the console now, his left hand leaving my hair to tease my nipples into points through my sweater, pinching them lightly and tugging. “God, Stella…I need you.”
Here’s the thing. Christmas season at Vivant was extra-spectacularly busy this year. We worked without cease from Thanksgiving through Christmas Eve—which was yesterday—and had very little couple time in the home stretch. Last night was the annual staff party, we passed out on the couch afterwards. Then this morning we had to wake up bright and early to drive to Pennsylvania to my parents’ house for brunch.
To put it mildly, we’re hornier than jackrabbits.
I’m strongly considering climbing onto his lap on this public road to get some relief.
Breaking the kiss, I raise an eyebrow at him. “Should we…”
Simultaneously, we glance at the dashboard clock. Eleven forty-nine.
“We told them we’d be there at noon,” Aiden groans, his head falling back against the driver’s seat. “And we’ve got another ten minutes to drive.”
With a whiny sound I’m not proud of, I drop back into my seat and reconnect the seatbelt. “Motel on the way back?”
“We might need to keep the room for a few days.” Bravely, Aiden squares his shoulders and starts the car engine again. “I guess we should be happy the store broke sales records this year. Your windows, Stella…” A breath puffs out of him as he pulls back onto the road. “You outdid yourself and I didn’t think that was possible after the summer designs.”
Spinning pastel pinwheels and glowing Chinese lanterns dance through my mind, but when I see the turnoff for my childhood street up ahead, the rush of good memories ends abruptly and my belly flops over. “Aiden, I’m really not sure about this.”
He reaches over and takes my hand, bringing it to his mouth. “I am.” He kisses my knuckles, brushing his lips sideways over my diamond engagement ring. “I’m damn sure. You’ve spent the last year learning how to be proud of yourself, Stella. Now they get a turn. They get to see who you’ve been all along. The woman I’d crawl across the Sahara to marry in March.” He squeezes my hand, saying in a softer tone, “We want them there when you walk down the aisle. Let’s start working toward that now, okay?”
“Yes,” I say on an exhale, giving Aiden a grateful look. “It’s going to be a good day.”
“It’s going to be a good day,” he repeats back to me with a lopsided grin.
I reach over to adjust his The Grinch Who Stole Christmas bowtie, then climb out of the car, my boots crunching down on the snowy driveway. I belt my winter coat tighter, checking to make sure none of my grown-out bangs have escaped their pins. Aiden takes my hand and we walk to the front door together.
Before we reach the porch, the entrance swings open and my parents stand there, framed in artificial green garland, watching us approach dubiously.
My steps slow and I have the urge to run back to the car.
Aiden’s grip tightens on my hand and he pulls me forward. “Merry Christmas, Dale and Kendra, it’s a real honor to be here. We meant to arrive a little earlier, but we stopped for hot chocolate. Can’t get enough of the stuff this time of year, can you? My Aunt Edna used to break up a salted pretzel on top of her whipped cream. Just like that. I’ll be polite and not mention the spiced rum she threw in there, too. Accidentally drank from her cup when I was eleven and spent Christmas passed out under the tree in footy pajamas. If you ask me, that’s how it should be spent, rum drunk or not. How’s brunch coming along? Need any help in there?”
I’m staring at my fiancé in disbelief.
Not because I didn’t expect him to open with an Aunt Edna story.
No, that’s pretty much a given.
I’m in disbelief at myself. For not believing this would be okay. In under a minute, Aiden has not only broken the tension, he’s shattered it like it never existed. My stomach knots are untying themselves and…I’m even exchanging a bemused smile with my mother.
“Hi,” I breathe into the cold Christmas morning air. “Yes, he’s always like this. Isn’t it wonderful?” I give Aiden a grateful look, squeeze his hand once and let it go, climbing the familiar steps and stopping in front of my parents. “Merry—”
They throw their arms around me at the same time.
I make a choked sound, reeling in shock for several beats before returning their embrace, a warmth I didn’t realize I was missing spilling back into my limbs. Over their shoulders, I can see into the house. Framed on their entry table is a picture of my first Vivant window. My second one is right behind it at an angle. Same frame every time.
I recognize the hammered bronze design from the Housewares department from Vivant.
Aiden has been sending them pictures of my windows.
“Come on,” my mother says, dusting some snow off the shoulder of my jacket, my father discreetly drying his eyes before stepping past me to shake Aiden’s hand. “Brunch is almost ready.”
On the way into the house, I look back at Aiden over my shoulder.
Snow falls around him, this man who can be both my hero and stand back and let me be my own. This one-of-a-kind man I can’t wait to marry in the spring.
I pack every ounce of love for him into a smile. “I matching robes love you.”
“I matching robes love you back,” he rasps, emotion weighing down every word. Then he climbs the stairs, wraps an arm around the small of my back and walks side by side with me into the house.
THE END
About the Author
New York Times Bestselling author Tessa Bailey can solve all problems except for her own, so she focuses those efforts on stubborn, fictional blue collar men and loyal, lovable heroines. She lives on Long Island avoiding the sun and social interactions, then wonders why no one has called. Dubbed the “Michelangelo of dirty talk,” by Entertainment Weekly, Tessa writes with spice, spirit, swoon and a guaranteed happily ever after. Catch her on TikTok at @authortessabailey or check out tessabailey.com for a complete list of books.
Coming Soon from Tessa Bailey
The highly anticipated follow up to It Happened One Summer…
An Excerpt from Hook Line and Sinker!
Hannah tore her wistful eyes off the man she’d been crushing on for two years—and saw Fox crossing the parking lot in their direction, his striking face a mask of alarm. “Hannah?”
Her mind made a scratchy humming sound, like the one a record makes in between songs. Probably because she’d communicated with this man every day for six—no, nearly seven—months now but never heard his voice. Perhaps because his identity had been whittled down to words on a screen, she’d forgotten that he commanded attention like a grand finale of fireworks in the night sky.
Without turning around, she knew every straight woman had her face pressed up against the windows of the bus, watching the maestro of feminine wetness cross the road, his dark blond hair blowing around in the wind, the lower half of his face covered in unruly, unshaped stubble, darker than the hair on his head.
With that pretty-boy face, he really should have been soft. Used to getting his way. Maybe, possibly even short. God, if you’re listening? But instead he looked like a troublemaker angel that got booted out of heaven, all tall and well-built and resilient and capable-looking. On top of everything else, he had to have the most dangerous job in the United States, the knowledge of fear and nature and consequences in his sea-blue eyes.
The relief of seeing Fox practically bowled her over, and she started to call out a greeting, until she realized the fisherman’s gravitational-pull eyes were honing in on Sergei, setting off a tectonic shift of plates in his cheeks.
“What happened to her?” Fox barked, bringing everything back to regular speed. Wait. When did her surroundings go into slow motion to begin with?
“I just fell on the bus,” Hannah explained, prodding her bumped head and wincing. Great, she’d split her skin slightly as well. “I’m fine.”
“Come on,” Fox said, still bird-dogging Sergei. “I’ll patch you up.”
She was about to raise a skeptical brow and ask to see his medical degree, but then she remembered a story Piper told her. Fox had once given Brendan makeshift stitches for a bleeding forehead wound. All while keeping his balance during a hurricane.
Such was the life of a king crab fisherman.
Couldn’t he just be super short? Was that so much to ask?
“I’m fine,” she said, patting Sergei’s arm, letting him know she was okay to stand on her own. “Unless you have a cure for pride in your first-aid kit?”
Fox licked the seam of his lips, brows still drawn, and his attention slid back toward the director. “We’ll take a closer look when we get home. You have a bag I can carry or something?”
“I . . .” Sergei started, looking at Hannah as if there was something new about her and he wanted to figure out what it was. “I didn’t realize you were . . . so close to anyone in town.”
Close? To Fox? Seven months ago, she would have thought that a stretch. Now? It wasn’t exactly a lie. Lately, she’d been talking to him more often than Piper. “Well—”
Fox cut her off. “We should get that bump looked at, Freckles.”
“Freckles,” Sergei echoed, checking her nose for spots.
Was something afoot here?
Both men were inching toward her subtly, like she was the last slice of pizza.
“Um. My bag is in the luggage compartment of the bus.” “I’ll get it,” they said at the same time. Was her head wound releasing some kind of alpha pheromone?
Fox and Sergei sized each other up, clearly ready to argue about who was going to get her bag. The way her day was going, it would probably ensue in a tug-of-war, the zipper would break, and her underpants would rain down like confetti. “I’ll grab it,” Hannah said, before either one of them could speak, hotfooting it away from the masculinity maelstrom before it affected her brain.
She turned for the bus just as Brinley glided down the stairs, giving Fox a curious look that Hannah was amazed to see he didn’t return. Those sea-blues were fastened on her bump, instead. Probably trying to decide which needle to use to mutilate her.
“Sergei,” Brinley called, twisting her earring. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, totally fine,” Hannah answered, beelining for the luggage compartment and attempting to open it. Everyone watched as she jerked on the handle, laughed, yanked more forcefully. Laughed again, then slammed her hip into it. No luck.
Before she could try a third time, Fox reached past her and opened it with a flick of his tan wrist. “You’re having a shit day, aren’t you?” he said for her ears alone.
She exhaled. “Yeah.”
He made a humming sound, tilted his head sympathetically. “Tell me which bag is yours and I’ll bring you back to my place.” Gently, he tugged on a strand of her hair. “Make it all better.”
It was totally possible she’d hit her head and ended up in an erotic sex dream with Fox Thornton. It wouldn’t be the first time—not that she would admit to that in a court of law. Or even to her sister. There was simply no way to combat the subtle transmissions he gave off that screamed, I’m good at sex. Like, really, really good. She was powerless against it. Thing was, that went for every other woman he came into contact with, too. And she had no interest in being one of thousands. That’s why they were friends. Hadn’t that been established?
Why was he hitting on her?
“How . . . ? What do you mean by that? That you’ll make my day better. How are you going to do that?”
“I was thinking ice cream.” He gave her a smile that could only belong to an irreverent rascal—and, Lord, she’d forgotten about the dimples. Dimples, for crying out loud. “Why? What were you thinking?”
Hannah had no idea what her reply was going to be. She started to stammer something, but the view of Sergei and Brinley strolling toward the harbor together made the words catch in her throat. He didn’t glance back once. Obviously she’d imagined the new spark of interest she’d seen in the director’s eyes. He was just being a good boss by making sure her head injury wasn’t serious.
Tearing her attention off the pair, she found Fox watching her closely.
After falling and being escorted off the bus by Sergei, she must have been in a state of distraction. Now that it was just the two of them—although Angelenos were beginning to file off the bus—a bubble of gratitude and fondness rose up in her middle and burst. She’d missed this place. It held some of her most treasured memories. And Fox was a part of them. His text messages over the last seven months had allowed her to hold on to a piece of Westport without intruding on her sister’s bliss. She appreciated him for that, so she didn’t second-guess her decision to hug him. With a laugh, she simply walked into his arms and inhaled his ocean scent, smiling when he laughed as well, rubbing the crown of her head with his knuckles.
“Hey, Freckles.”
She rubbed her cheek on the gray cotton of his long-sleeved shirt, stepped back, and shoved him playfully. “Hey, Peacock.” No one was hitting on anyone. Or pulling alpha moves. Friends. That’s what this relationship was. She wasn’t going to mess that up by objectifying him. There was more to Fox than a chiseled face, thick arms, and an air of danger. Just like there was a lot more to her than being a coffee holder and note taker.
Fox seemed to notice the glumness eclipse her joy, because he picked up the only black bag in the pile—correctly assuming it was hers—and threw his opposite arm around her shoulders, guiding her toward the apartment building where he lived, across from the docks. “You let me fix your noggin, I’ll throw in a cookie with that ice cream.”
