Emma smiled as she thought about the kisses. Luke made her smile, she thought, and it was a good feeling. He'd been right; everything with Sam and Lila was in the past, and whatever fault was hers, she couldn’t pay penance for the rest of her life.
One night, to her surprise, she found herself wanting to write a song.
She debated for a moment, then took a deep breath and turned to face the piano. It stood there, as it had for two years, but this time it wasn't taunting her, reminding her of what she'd lost. Instead, she thought, it was inviting her to start getting things back.
She walked over, laughing at herself when she saw her hands shaking. It was silly, she thought, that she should be afraid of the instrument that had brought her--and Lila--so much joy, and fun. Especially at Christmas.
Running her fingers over the yellowed keys, she recalled Christmases when they were younger. They would sing songs, solo and together. As they got older, they would teach their younger cousins the words. She'd tried writing Christmas songs, but they'd all seemed too treacly, and had decided that the traditional carols were the best. Instead of writing new songs, she and Lila had tried making their own versions of their favorites, and "Do You Hear What I Hear?" was the one they'd liked best.
So, Emma thought. She sat down and winced at the sound of her first chords. I can't write Christmas songs, but I can write a song for the man who helped me find my songs again.
x-x-x-x
Luke yawned and stretched as he sat in front of his computer. The stretch only served to underscore how sore the muscles in his neck were, so he stood and rolled his shoulders. In an automatic move, he saved his work before going into his small kitchenette for a drink.
The novel was flowing, as he'd expected. And it was good, he was sure it was. Rough, but good. He was confident but not arrogant; every writer needed an editor. He would make as clean a copy as possible, and he knew someone would go at it with scissors, if not shears, but damn it--he'd make them work to cut anything.
Emma was infiltrating the novel. He couldn't help it. He shook his head and smiled at himself. She wasn't just finding her way into the novel, but into his life, into him. Some days it was torture to tear himself away to write when he wanted to be with her.
He rubbed his eyes as he reached into the fridge. The milk was bad. The beer wasn't. He dumped the milk and drank the beer.
He hated leaving Emma in that small, blank apartment. Not that his was much better, he thought. It was messy. Guy messy. Lived in, he corrected himself. He hadn't bothered with Christmas decorations, even, since he'd been so immersed in his writing. At least Emma had found herself the little Santa tabletop decoration, complete with sleigh and reindeer.
Inspiration struck. It was too close to Christmas to bother decorating his place--but he could decorate Emma's. He had a box of stuff in storage that he could use, and he was sure he could cadge his way in somehow. The trick would be getting into her apartment, and he couldn’t think how he'd get a key, but he was set now that he had a plan.
Emma had forbidden herself Christmas for the last couple of years, but he was going to change that.
x-x-x-x
"It's Christmas Eve. Go home already." Millie planted herself in front of Emma. "You've worked a shift and a half already. We're closing soon and I can handle it."
Emma looked around. Only two booths were occupied, and one man sat at the counter, a friend of Marco's. Christmas carols drifted through the quiet.
"I can stay, Millie. I mean, what if there's a last-minute rush?"
"Rush?" Millie made a noise between a snort and a laugh. "I've had this place longer than you've been alive. We ain't never once had a last-minute rush on Christmas Eve. And I'm closed tomorrow, so you'll have to find something else to do."
"I think…" Emma almost couldn’t believe she was saying it.
