“I can’t lose this,” he says, staring down at where his hands rest loosely clasped in his lap. “I don’t know what I’d do.”
He’s said it so seriously, with such feeling, and for a split second I let it echo through me, some ringing holiday bell of hope. But then I remember. Jasper’s this, the this he can’t lose—it’s the job. It’s always going to be the job. He’d done as much as tell me so himself, back when we’d had that fight about Ben.
“Good morning to everyone in the boarding area,” comes a too-loud, slightly crackly voice over the gate speakers, and both Jasper and I raise our heads. “We’ll now start boarding at Gate A6 for Flight 2124 to Boston, starting with first class and business class—”
“That’s us,” Jasper says, shifting his hand to his bag.
“That’s you,” I tell him, relieved. I need some space after that exchange, that reminder.
His brow furrows in confusion.
“Carol said, remember? There was only one business class seat on this flight. I told her to give me coach.”
“I”—he blinks down at his ticket—“I don’t remember that. I would remember that.”
He looks so confused, and frankly, I get it. He would remember that. When it comes to the business, he remembers every detail.
“It’s no big deal.” It’s under four hours to Boston, and it’s not like I don’t have work—or my incredibly painful interpersonal issues with my colleague—to distract me.
“You’ll take my seat.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Kris,” he says, swiping a hand across his face. The gesture is so vulnerable, so unlike him. I have such an aching feeling of longing that I have to look away. “I don’t want to argue.”
“So don’t,” I say, too sharply. “You’re six foot four, Jasper. I’m not taking your legroom.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You won’t be. You’ll be cranky and uncomfortable. Just get on the plane. Take a nap. I’ll see you when we land.”
He stands, and I think maybe he’s relented, but instead of heading to the boarding lane he walks to the ticket counter. The woman not swiping passes looks up at him and after a stunned blink, she smiles. I resist the urge to snort knowingly. She’s going to do her best, even in spite of the fact that she’s wearing a jingle bell necklace and elf hat, but Jasper is probably not going to notice. His mind is so one-track, all the time. If he went up to that counter to try to get a second business-class seat, then that’s literally all he’s thinking about. I once saw a waitress undo two buttons of her shirt while he asked her about the dinner special and his eyes didn’t stray once while he ordered the rockfish. I still remember the exact, slightly befuddled way he’d said, “What?” when he looked back at me after she’d walked away.
She makes a few keystrokes on her computer and they exchange a few words, Jasper turning to nod his head my way at one point. Ugh. Now we seem like those people. Like we’re so important, we just have to be in business class. I pretend to be interested in my phone.
“Here.”
A ticket appears in front of me. I look up at Jasper. “There’s no way.”
Forget that the ticket agent thought he was handsome; even a face like Jasper’s doesn’t make a new business-class seat appear on a full flight three days before Christmas.
“I switched our tickets.”
“Jasper, I said I didn’t—”
“I can’t be comfortable,” he says bluntly, still holding out the ticket. “I can’t be comfortable if you’re not. Just take it, please.”
When I look up at him, I hear that holiday bell again. All the years I’ve known him and I’ve never seen emotion like this on his face, something so desperate and yearning. I know, I know I shouldn’t hear it, but I do.
I reach out a hand and take the ticket.
But I don’t look at him when I walk away.
Chapter Five
JASPER
I know it’s over before we even knock on the door.
When Kristen and I met Gil Dreyer six weeks ago, we did it at his office, a nondescript building ninety minutes outside of Boston. The space where Gil did his work was as rumpled and unexpected as the man himself. No one would expect the most advanced desalination tech the world has seen in years to come out of that lab, and no one would expect that a man with a bachelor’s degree in philosophy and absolutely zero employment history in advanced scientific fields would be the one to develop it. It hadn’t been an easy sell, getting him to GreenCorp, but in that cramped, messy, dated office, we’d had an advantage.
But there’s no advantage in driving up the winding gravel driveway leading to the Dreyer home, which is, in fact, more like a rustic, snow-covered country compound. We lucked out in missing a heavy fall a couple of days ago, so the roads were mostly clear, flanked by dirty, packed drifts, but out here the snow is mostly bright white and smooth.
Frankly, it looks like Christmas Town, also known as my personal nightmare, and judging from Kris’s face—which had mostly been stoic throughout our drive—her personal charm factory. It’s midafternoon, so the lights aren’t on, but through the light snowfall we can see them strung up everywhere—winding around the trees flanking the drive, lining the roofline of a small red and white cottage that’s got a massive mulberry wreath on its door, woven around the columns on a front porch that lines the entirety of the tidy ranch house with smaller red-ribboned wreaths hung on every window, white candles on every sill. There’s an actual Christmas tree in the front yard. Fully fucking decorated.
This man is not going to go pick up from here and move after the first of the year.
“Oh!” Kristen says, which, disappointingly, is a much more enthusiastic oh than the one I got for telling her she’d given me the best kiss of my life. When I look over at her
