Just a Number(62)
He responds with a smile, glancing toward the kitchen before lifting my hand to his lips and kissing it softly. “Merry Christmas, Amelia,” he whispers, letting our hands fall, still connected, to the couch, his thumb gliding over the back of my hand in a way that sends goosebumps prickling up my arm and spreading all over my body.
“Merry Christmas, Owen.”
Smiling, I rest my head against the back of the couch and stare longingly into Owen’s eyes. We’d gotten through the day without slipping up. I’d say that’s a small victory and we’ve earned the two minutes of hand-holding before we hear Hayley and Ethan crash through the house and into the living room, forcing us to pull apart.
18. I Think We’re Alone Now
“You sure you can’t stay awhile longer?” Alan asks over breakfast.
It’s the morning of the twenty-ninth, and Amelia and I are planning to leave early that afternoon. Truthfully, I could stay another day or two, but every day that passes finds me more and more unable to stay away from Amelia. It will only be a matter of time before we slip up again; I just know it. It’s selfish, but I also have plans to surprise Amelia for New Year’s.
“Yeah,” I reply, spearing some eggs onto my fork and taking a bite. “I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up at the office before the New Year, and then there’s the office party the night of the thirty-first.” There. Not a total lie.
Alan looks over at his daughter, looking somewhat hopeful, and it makes my stomach churn, because I already know what her answer is going to be. Offering him an apologetic smile, she shrugs. “I’d stay if he wasn’t my ride home,” she tells him. I sense a little truth in her words, but more than that, I sense her desperation for the two of us to be alone.
Of course, that could all be me. That picture Amelia sent me the other morning only does so much good; I can’t wait to have my hands on her in every way she’ll allow.
Over the last few days, we’ve managed to have a few stolen moments together, but we’re always careful to keep a safe distance from one another—save for a few fleeting touches as we pass one another in the hall. I’ll be glad once we can tell Alan, and I know that now would probably be a good time since it’s just the three of us gathered around the table, but I don’t want to ruin what I have planned back in Seattle for Amelia.
Yes, it’s selfish, I get that, but what could a few more days hurt, really? Amelia’s going to ask him to come down on the second of January, and she’ll suggest we all go to breakfast. While there, we’ll tell him everything—well, maybe not everything, but we’ll tell him about us.
Telling him on our terms will be better for everyone, but it’s still not going to be easy for him to hear. I think Amelia is hoping that such a public setting will help to keep him from overreacting…or, really, just reacting a little less like a father who’s just found out the identity of his daughter’s much older boyfriend.
“So, Dad,” Amelia says, shifting in her seat nervously, indicating that this is it. This is the moment she’s going to invite him to the city so we can talk to him. “I know you’re working New Year’s Eve, but is there any chance you could make it down afterward? Like, maybe on the second or something?”
Alan smirks before taking a sip of his coffee. “Why not just stay until the New Year? I’d be happy to drive you back to the city.”
“Well,” she says softly, dragging the word out, “I’m hoping to have plans on New Year’s.”
Alan appears confused as he drops his eyes to his plate and pushes his eggs around. “Hoping? You mean that uh…” He pauses briefly, almost as he’s trying to find the right word to use. “That guy you’re seeing hasn’t asked you to do anything?” He laughs once, and it’s without humor.
“Dad,” Amelia says, exasperated. “It isn’t like that. We haven’t been able to talk much since I left the city.” It’s admittedly hard to suppress a smirk every time she finds a way to skirt the truth without flat-out lying. Somehow, a career in journalism seems quite fitting. “I’m sure he’s got something planned.” She carefully casts her eyes up at me before tossing her napkin onto her empty plate. “You guys done?”
Alan and I relinquish our plates to her, and she takes them to the sink where she proceeds to tidy up. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to start an argument with her father about her relationship, and I can’t blame her. I’ve known Amelia long enough—and her father even longer—to know that if they continue on down that road, Amelia would have enough and tell him about us in a fit of anger. And anger only breeds more anger, which is something we’re trying to avoid when it comes to telling Alan.