Page 7 of All in for Christmas

I hear faint music through the wall. Laughter. Children?

Did I leave the TV on? I’m aware of a snuggly warmth.

So comfy cozy, huddled under the covers, drifting peacefully on a cushiony cloud, while a light scent fills the air.

It reminds me of a Christmas candle, cinnamon and cloves, with nutmeg and a hint of vanilla.

Ethereal. Floating. I never want to leave this euphoric place.

A strong arm wraps around me, cradling my back against a solid chest. My heart jolts. Whose chest? Long legs tuck up against mine, brushing the backs of my calves and thighs. I’m in some kind of heavy shirt, bare-legged, and spooning ? With whom?

My bedmate stirs, holding me tighter. They’re strong.

Muscled. Heat coils in my belly. It’s a guy, most definitely.

Anatomy doesn’t lie. My eyes fly wide, and I squint in the glare.

This bedroom’s foreign to me, sunlight filtering in through closed blinds.

My heart pounds one, two, three times. Then it pounds harder.

Manly fingers thread through mine, our hands interlaced on the bunched-up covers.

Freak-out moment! We both wear wedding bands.

Deep breaths.

I did not pull a bender and wind up in Vegas. I’ve got no memory of traveling. Getting on a plane. I fight my brain fog, panic lodging in my throat. Did I? No.

Sweat beads my brow.

This isn’t some fancy hotel room in a high-rise casino, either.

It looks more like my late grandma’s house, furnished with thrift store purchases.

The cluttered dresser’s missing a handle.

The chest of drawers is scuffed. The threadbare chair in the corner’s heaped with laundry.

More clothing piles in a basket beside it.

Child-size pieces and adult ones. Clean but not folded.

Scattered dryer sheets poking out of the mix.

Wait. Is that a dog bed in the corner?

I frantically scan the room for any signs of a fur baby.

The large, patterned rug could use vacuuming, and the hardwood floors hold dust bunnies.

They appear to be real hardwood, not processed like you find in newer houses.

The door to the bathroom reveals an older pedestal sink, a black-and-white tile floor.

Toilet. The beginnings of a tub and shower combo, with an old-fashioned shower curtain bunched up at one end.

Gone’s my roomy walk-in shower with a rainfall showerhead.

Gone’s the stylish vanity. Gone’s the primo lighting! I know what this is. A nightmare! Yes.

No. This feels extremely real. So does he.

Pulling me closer, nuzzling his chin against my neck.

Arousal hums through me, but I douse it—in very cold water.

I don’t even know who this person is, or where I am.

Maybe…at an Airbnb? My anxiety spikes. Was I abducted?

Doubtful. I peer at the door. I seem free to go.

It’s not even latched completely, standing open a lazy inch.

Drugged? I gasp. Maybe someone spiked my drink?

Wrong. I’ve been nowhere in the past twenty-four hours, except to work and the Walton holiday party.

He stirs behind me, cuddling me closer. Shifts and raises up on an elbow.

Lightly kisses my shoulder. Heat floods my face.

Then pools lower. Not good. I need to fight and flee!

Assuming he’s dangerous. Not melt into a slushy puddle of attraction.

He does feel attractive, though. So solid, pressing against me. His forearm tightens around my chest.

“Morning, sunshine.” His husky breath rakes over me, and my skin tingles all over.

Hang on. I know that voice. Incredibly well.

I peer back at him and his morning stubble. Slowly. Slowly.

My heart races.

A solid jaw, that dimpled cheek. Dark eyes twinkling.

Handsome. Sexy. In-bed-with-me Dean .

Ahhh! I throw back the covers and sit up abruptly, pulling out of his hold.

“Paige?” His eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?

” He’s in an undershirt and sweatpants. I’m wearing his large navy T-shirt and—I yank up the hem of the T-shirt to check—frilly satin panties that say “Friday” in bright red stitching.

Wait. My butt feels bare. I’m in a thong?

Seriously? I didn’t know I had it in me. Mom would be so proud.

I drop the T-shirt in a rush, stretch it down toward my knees.

Run my hands through my choppy hair. Wait!

What happened to my hair? It sifts through my fingers in waves.

My heart pounds and I spring off the bed, racing to the dresser mirror.

Who is that person with pink highlighted hair framing her roundish face?

My pale blue eyes are huge, my mouth puffy.

I trace my bottom lip with my finger. I see Dean in the mirror behind me, looking perplexed.

He sits there on the bed staring, like he’s worried about me.

Like he doesn’t know who I am. That makes two of us.

“Did you have a bad dream?” His hair’s askew, his mouth creased with concern. Bad dream doesn’t begin to cover it. Bizarre hallucination might be closer. Is this on account of the advent calendar? Dean’s mysteriously magical gift?

The door to the bedroom bursts open. “Mommy! Daddy! Yay!”

A child races in, and I wheel around. She’s about five, I think, and has cute brown pigtails, hopping up onto the bed in baby blue pajamas.

Dean pulls her into his arms, settling her in his lap, and she giggles.

“Morning, pumpkin.” He kisses her head as I gape at him.

The two of them form such a pretty picture, like they’re the perfect fit.

She’s clearly her daddy’s daughter, with a dimple in her left cheek and big dark eyes.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

Two kids.

This one’s a boy wearing dinosaur pj’s. He’s a few years younger than the girl, maybe two and a half or three.

He flies through the open bedroom door and throws himself at my bare legs— oof —squeezing tightly, and my knees lock so I don’t tumble over.

He looks up. Big blue eyes and blond hair.

Chubby cherub cheeks. Strikingly, he looks a lot like childhood pictures I’ve seen of Mom.

“I’m hungry.” He holds a stuffed Loch Ness Monster tucked under one arm. “Nessie’s hungry, too.”

Dean and I used to talk about traveling to the United Kingdom.

Did we go, and I forget all the fun? How did we take that trip with kids?

Did my mom watch them, or did his parents?

Did we have a honeymoon? What about Puerto Rico?

What about Mom’s medical appointment Wednesday?

My job at Walton? My super important program, Paws and Read?

My brain scrambles to keep up as I stare at the room.

I have a family? No. Not possible. Just a very elaborate dream.

My palms go damp. Which I didn’t plan for. I distinctly wrote in my dream journal: Relationship with Dean . My breath comes in fits and starts. Oh nooo . I left the “professional” part out. Is this all my fault? How did this happen? Whyyyy?

A shaggy white dog prances into the bedroom.

He’s midsize, maybe forty or fifty pounds, and looks like a big, lovable mop, fur falling over his eyes.

He bounds over to me with a rolled-up newspaper in his mouth.

It’s in a clear plastic sleeve that’s coated with snowflakes.

He presses the icy mass against my leg and goosebumps raise on my arm.

I reach down and take the paper roll numbly.

It’s damp, cold, chilling my hand—which is already slick with nerves.

I clutch the paper harder, so I don’t drop it.

“Good job, Scout!” Dean praises the pup and gives me an odd look.

The paper hangs limply from one hand and my other hand’s on the little boy’s shoulder.

This stranger kid’s shoulder. I yank it back.

Hold it up in the air. Splay out my fingers then bring them back to together.

A wedding band gleams up at me. The room glows blindingly bright, then dims.

Dean scoots to the edge of the bed and sets the girl down on the floor. “Eleanor, why don’t you take Henry to finish watching your cartoons? Mommy and Daddy will be out in a bit.”

She pouts but complies. “Okay, Daddy.”

Eleanor? Henry? My head spins. Daddy?

Henry gives my legs a harder squeeze. “Can we have pancakes?” he asks plaintively.

I can’t say no. I mean, who am I? The Grinch?

No. A different storybook character. One from classic literature.

Ebenezer Scrooge. Although, honestly, I’m not that Scroogey.

In fact, I’m not Scroogey at all. Frugal, of course, in a responsible manner.

Organized, sure. But I don’t pinch pennies at the expense of others.

I’m reserved but giving and kind. So, what’s this?

A glimpse of my future? Yeah, maybe. So where’s my spirit?

My eyes dart around the room. I’m supposed to have three spirits showing me around.

One each for Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come.

I know that. I frown, feeling cheated. I’ve taught Dickens’s A Christmas Carol , and read it, gobs of times.

“Uh.” I blink blankly at the boy.

Dean meets Henry’s eyes. “I think Mommy needs her coffee.” He motions toward the door where Eleanor stands waiting. “Run along with your sister.”

“O-tay!”

Dean winks at him. “That’s o- kay , buddy.”

Henry responds with a big bright grin. “O-tay, Daddy!”

They thankfully disappear and Scout follows, wagging his tail with a woof, woof, woof.

The room turns a quick revolution and I grab onto the dresser.

“Paige?” Dean’s hand is on my shoulder. “Are you sick? Do you need to see a doctor? Go to urgent care?”

My voice squeaks. “No.” He gently pries the newspaper from my clenched fingers and sets it on the nightstand by the bed.