Page 9 of All in for Christmas

I jump out of my skin. “Dean!”

He wears an amused smile. “Who are you, then?” He enters the room leading with a full mug of coffee, balancing it carefully as he walks.

I blink as he comes closer. Music plays on the television in the next room.

Little kid laughter tinkles like chimes in a music box.

He approaches one of the two windows on the far wall.

The dresser with a swivel mirror stands between them.

I spot a large crimson-colored candle in a glass jar on the dresser top sandwiched between a hairbrush, perfume bottles, unruly stacks of books and magazines.

The candle’s label reads “Christmas Magic.” So that’s what’s giving off the cheery cinnamon scent. We must have burned it last night.

“Mind if I raise these up?” he asks about the blinds, holding the mug in one hand. “It’s snowing out there, really beautiful.”

I nod numbly. “Sure.”

He tugs at the cord and gorgeous white flakes twirl beyond the window, cascading against the glass and sailing through the air in dainty waves.

I remember the newspaper and the dog. “Still, Scout got the paper?”

“Of course,” Dean reports. “It’s his job.

” He raises the other set of blinds, and the room brightens exponentially.

The wintry scene outdoors makes it feel twice as cozy in here with me snuggled under the covers.

Though it’s hard to understand about the dog getting outside to grab the paper on his own.

I chuckle nervously, trying to picture it.

“So. He just unlocks the front door with his teeth, and—”

Dean squints like that’s absurd, and I suppose it is. “No. He uses the dog door in the kitchen.”

“A- ha ! Ha. Ha. Ha.” I might have guessed that if I were used to owning a real dog and not a robotic one.

Naturally, dogs are trainable. Just look at the stars of my Paws and Read program, Cooper and Bailey.

Cooper is a little sneaky but smart as a whip and great at his job.

So’s Bailey. Evidently, Scout’s equally skilled at his. Bringing in the paper. How precious.

Dean hands me the coffee mug and sits beside me on the bed. “Here. Maybe this will help. It’s just how you like it.”

I hold the mug and take a quick sip. Instantly spit it back out. So much sugar!

“What’s wrong?” He peers closer. “Something with the coffee?”

I drag the back of my hand across my mouth. “No, no. It’s good! Sweet .”

“Two tablespoons is your normal amount,” he says, sounding perplexed.

“Really?” I take another quick sip. This is not fat-free milk, either. It’s cream. “Wow. Just throw in some flour and butter!” Who needs breakfast when you can drink a pastry?

“What?”

“Ne-never mind.” I set the mug on the nightstand. “Thanks so much for fixing this for me.” The breakfast of champions. I’m going to be so wired.

He shrugs. “Anytime.” Dean studies my eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Um.”

He hands me the coffee again and I try not to wince.

“Thanks!” I take a quick sip, strangely liking it better.

I taste it again just to be sure. It’s not terrible .

I drink some more. Honestly, it’s growing on me.

Maybe this is how I get through my mornings with the kids?

I stare at him over the rim of my mug. “Dean?”

“Hmm?”

Another sip of coffee, stoking my courage. Caffeine and sugar hit me with a zippity-zap . I blink like I’ve taken a belt of strong whiskey. “I need to tell you something,” I say, “and I don’t want you to freak.”

His face seizes up and he grabs my free hand. “Oh no, Paige. You’re not—” His fingers clench mine.

“Sick?” I fill in at the same time he guesses, “Pregnant?”

I choke on my coffee and set it on the nightstand.

“No!” I lick my lips. Glance down at my waist. “Neither.” I hope. That would be a trick. And awful. I’m not adjusted to two kids, how on earth would I handle three? I never even thought I wanted any. Okay, okay. Perhaps one. Someday in the very distant future.

His tense expression eases. “Well, thank goodness you’re not sick.” He takes my hand. “Though, truthfully? Pregnant would be okay. Not catastrophic. We’d handle it.”

I swallow hard. I’m not so sure about that. Prolonged bouts of morning sickness and bloating sound grueling to me. I don’t know how my mom did it. How any moms do.

He leans toward me and says, “Just like we’ve handled all of life’s other curveballs—together.” The corners of his mouth turn up and my heart melts. He’s so understanding and supportive. Such a gem. I’m so lucky to have him.

Only. I don’t.

He lifts a hand to my face and sweeps back my hair. “Are you worried about last Saturday?” he asks quietly.

My stomach quivers. “What?”

“You know,” he whispers. “When the kids were at your mom’s?”

Sounds enticing. If only I could remember.

His hand glides behind my neck, fingers pushing up into my hair. “Things got kind of wild with me playing naughty Santa, and you sexy Mrs. Claus.” His eyes gleam devilishly. “I’m sorry about the thong.” My face heats. We what? Role-played?

“Oh!”

He kisses me deeply, and I hang on to his shoulders for dear life.

Attraction ripples through me like a wildfire raging.

His mouth fuses with mine in a dreamy meld, our tongues tangling.

I don’t know how he’s gotten so much better at kissing when he was top-notch to begin with. Must be all the practice we’ve had.

“I’ll buy you another,” he says in gravelly tones. This seems to be happening so fast. So soon. But only for me. In his mind, we’ve been married for years. Together for longer.

“It’s, um, okay!” My breath hitches. “Don’t bother.”

He gently peels back the covers. Casts a glance at my legs.

Gently grasps my ankle. I warm all over, my pulse fluttering.

“Maybe we should work on the other days of the week? Later, while the kids are napping?” I blush like a teenager, oddly embarrassed.

Like we’re oversharing. Physically. But we’re not. OMG. We’re married.

I tug his T-shirt lower on my thighs. “Sounds good!” I yank the covers back up and smooth them.

I mean, he might recall last Saturday, but I don’t, unfortunately.

Thank goodness for Mom! Who knew she’d be such a great granny.

“But, er. Maybe we should build up to it a bit?” I flush hotter and shyly raise a shoulder. “Quiet evening? Some wine?”

“You’re right.” He holds my hand and kisses the back of it. “Why rush romance?” I can’t tell him it’s already moving at breakneck speed for me. He’d never get it. Or maybe he will once I explain. I brace myself mentally for the enormous task ahead.

“You were going to say something?” he asks.

Okay. This is it.

Deep breaths.

“Dean,” I say solemnly. “I come to you from the future.”

He blinks. “Okay.”

“Not our future, but my future. The one I have without you.”

His breath catches. “Maybe I should call Rosemary.”

This is so not working.

“Mom? No! Why?” I can’t tell her this yet. I need to deal with my husband-not-a-husband first.

“Paige. Honey. Is this some kind of joke?” He rakes a hand through his hair, appearing pained. “Because I’m going to be honest with you. I’m not finding it funny.”

“It’s not a joke,” I whimper helplessly.

He blows out a breath. “Oh boy.”

“Dean! Please listen!”

He sits at attention. “Whoa, Paige, you’re scaring me.”

“I’m not trying to do that, honestly.” I soften my approach. “I’m just trying to tell you the truth.”

“You want a future without me?” he asks, sounding hurt.

“ Nooo. That’s not what—”

“Our family?” A sheen coats his eyes. “Are you saying you regret us ?”

I can’t stand his crushed look. The devastation in his tone. “Of course not,” I whisper. “It’s just”—I purse my lips—“sometimes life takes two paths. Diverges.”

He stands from the bed and frowns. “I’m a divergence now?

Wow.” He shakes his head. Sets his hands on his hips.

“Unbelievable. Next, you’re going to tell me none of this matters.

Eleanor, Henry.” His raw tone pierces my heart.

“Scout.” He waves around the room. “Our great house. The one we scrimped and saved for. That we wanted for our family. The family I thought both of us loved.” His jaw tenses. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

This is going so wrong.

I try appealing to his rational mind. “Dean, you’re a scientist, right?”

He shrugs. “You could call me that, I guess.”

“So you must have thought, at some point, about time splits and alternate realities?”

He rubs the side of his neck. “Like time travel, you mean?”

I nod and hold the covers against my chest. “This morning I had the oddest sensation when I woke up. Like I wasn’t meant to be here, but somewhere else entirely.”

“You were hungover, Paige.”

“Dean, no.” I clutch the covers harder. “This wasn’t about that.”

“Then what was it about?”

“It was like, um.” I lick my lips. “I caught a glimpse of another world.”

“A better one?” The way he searches my eyes breaks my heart.

“Er, not exactly,” I hedge. “More like different.”

“Did you like what you saw?” he presses.

“Some parts.”

“But you were single, yeah?” When I don’t answer, he hangs his head. “I see.”

“Dean, please.”

He gloomily looks up. “You’re getting restless in our marriage, aren’t you?”

He sounds so broken, I must protest. “What? Nooo .”

“Well, here’s the thing, Paige.” Hurt laces each word. “I’m not.”

How can I do this to him? Someone so good and kind? The man who clearly adores me and our family? There’s got to be another way. “I’m sorry, Dean. Everything I’m saying is coming out wrong. You’re the very best husband and dad any woman could hope for.”

Relief glimmers in his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I push back the covers and stand. “Dean, really. I’m sorry.” I lay a hand on his arm. “Please forgive me.” I broke his heart once and it nearly killed me. I can’t do it a second time. My own heart won’t let me. “That wasn’t how it sounded.”

“No?” He studies me, his expression worn. “Then how was it?”