*
I slowly opened my eyes to see Adrian leaning back on his elbows and Lucian kneeling on the rug in front of the fire, concentrating very hard on making an elaborate, multideck card castle. I watched them for a few minutes as I slowly began to wake up. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep a small yawn from escaping, and Lucian whipped his head to look at me.
“She’s awake,” he said in a stage whisper to Adrian, who smiled and nodded.
“What time is it?” I asked sleepily.
“Just after five,” Adrian replied.
I stretched and yawned again on the couch. “When do we have to go back?”
One corner of his mouth tilted up in a sad smile. “Soon.”
I looked at Adrian. He looked back.
“Is it dinner?” Lucian asked, unable to mask his excitement.
“There’s a Snickers bar for you in the cooler,” Adrian said, not taking his eyes off me. Lucian darted into the kitchen in search of his treasure. I blinked out of necessity, but kept my gaze level. The sound of Lucian searching for the Snickers bar escalated, but I almost didn’t hear him because nothing was so important in the world as this moment, here, with Adrian. Just then, Lucian ran back in, prize in hand. I blinked and sat up, folding the blanket to give my hands something to do.
“Caitlin,” I heard Adrian call my name. I looked up. “I left your present in the other room. Lucian, we’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, happily chewing on the candy bar.
I stood up slowly and followed Adrian through the bedroom door, which he closed behind us. A single lamp shone from the nightstand. My heart was beating too fast, and I couldn’t seem to breathe right.
“Caitlin,” he murmured, and backed me up against the door. I stood perfectly still, half afraid I was asleep. He closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the door and his cheek against mine and whispered my name again, like it was sacred.
I slid my arms around his waist and murmured, “Merry Christmas.”
He breathed quietly against my neck. Slowly, as if afraid I would disintegrate in his arms, he gathered me into a hug that lifted me off my toes.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispered. Slowly, he let me down again, and finally let me go. He shook his head and cleared his throat. “I suppose you want your present?”
I cleared my throat, too, feeling weird and emotional. “I didn’t expect you to get me anything,” I told him as he went to the other side of the bed and picked up two large boxes.
“I know. But I wanted to.” He set them on the bed, and they made a huge indent. “Open them.”
Cautiously, I went over to the first box and unwrapped it. Inside was the sewing machine my mom had bought me, the one with the broken pedal cord.
I looked at him. “You fixed it?”
He shrugged, blushing. “I thought you might want to use it again.”
I felt tears racing to my eyes and I turned, blinking rapidly to bat them away. “Is this other box for me, too?”
He nodded.
I scowl-smiled at him as I ripped off the paper. Underneath was the packaging for a brand-new Brother serger.
“Adrian—is this what’s actually in there?”
“Yes.”
I tried to breathe again. “I can’t accept this. This is very expensive.”
“If you don’t accept it, I’ll just drop it off at your front door with a note to your aunt saying it’s an anonymous Christmas present for you.”
“Adrian,” I breathed, “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Please.”
He almost looked anxious. I rubbed my hands over my face. “No one’s ever gotten me anything this nice before.”
“Then it was about time,” he said with a small smile. I looked at him again. He seemed determined.
“Thank you,” I said finally. “They’re perfect. I don’t know where I’m going to put them, but they’re beautiful and perfect.”
He blushed a little. “That’s already taken care of.”
“What do you mean?”
“I converted one of the offices into a studio for you. You can come over and use it anytime you want.”
“Adrian,” I began to protest again, but he cut me off.
“It’s already stocked with some of the fabrics you’ll need to start making your designs.”
I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Remember when I borrowed those sketches of yours after Thanksgiving?” I nodded warily. “I sent copies of them to a contact in New York. He agreed to supply you with fabric and materials. He also said that if your work is as good as your sketches, there’s an internship waiting for you when you graduate—assuming you don’t mind moving to the city, of course.”
I continued to stare at him, unable to comprehend the words coming out of his mouth. “What are you saying?”
He shrugged. “You said you wanted a job.”
“That’s a career.”
“It’s a foot in the door.”