Chloe

The bed was huge, covered in a fluffy comforter. A table sat to the side with a light and a clock. I looked at Mrs. Brown, certain there had been some mistake, but she said I could sleep here.

I had my own bathroom, too. She ran a bath for me and told me I could soak for as long as I wanted. I did. I had never taken a bath before, only showers.

The thick, fragrant bubbles so fascinated me that I almost forgot to wash myself. By the time I was done, my hair and body were scrubbed clean and I felt warm again.

Mrs. Brown was waiting for me with a soft flannel nightgown that smelled fresh and clean, just like Sam’s clothes always did. She asked if she could brush my hair. I didn’t really want her to, but she had been so nice and I didn’t have the heart to say no, so I nodded.

It was kind of nice, actually. She was kind and gentle, and told me what lovely long hair I had. I imagined that was what it was like to have a mom. She asked me some questions, too, but I knew better than to answer. She didn’t get mad like I thought she would. Instead, she told me how happy she was that Sam had found me, and that I was welcome to stay with them over the holidays. I wanted to believe her so badly.

We talked about Christmas. Well, she talked about Christmas and I listened. I knew it was supposed to be a happy time, but I dreaded it. Everything was closed on Christmas, which meant my father stuck around the trailer and drank all day. The more he drank, the meaner he got.

Those were the only times he mentioned my mother. He would look at me with such hate in his eyes. I didn’t know what exactly had happened to her, but I did know that whatever it was, it had happened around Christmas and he blamed me.

What Sam’s mom described sounded pretty good, though. She told me how Sam and his dad would take the sleigh and head into the forest to pick out a perfect tree. While they were doing that, she baked and decorated cookies, and that this year, I could help. At night, we would have cocoa and cookies, and decorate the tree with lights and ribbons and ornaments. Then, on Christmas Eve, Santa would come down the chimney and leave presents for everyone.

At one point, Sam’s mom asked me what I had asked Santa for. I shook my head and told her nothing. She asked why, and I told her what my father told me every year—that I was on Santa’s Naughty List and that kids on the Naughty List didn’t get anything.

She got a funny look on her face, almost like she was going to cry. I didn’t want her to cry, so I had to come up with something.

I pulled Rufus out of my backpack and held the tattered, stuffed bear out to her. “Rufus needs a new eye, and his ear’s almost completely off. Do you think, if I left him under the tree on Christmas Eve, Santa’s elves could fix him?”

She told me that yes, she was sure of it, and that, because I had made a selfless wish, I would definitely be on the Nice List this year. “So, think about what you want tonight,” she told me, “and you can write a letter to Santa tomorrow.”

She then tucked me in and said goodnight. After she left, I pulled out my notebook and pencil and started writing. I didn’t have to think about what I wanted. I already knew.

Dear Santa, I began. What I really want for Christmas is to stay here with Sam and his family ...

I woke up and saw the big bear of a man reclining on my old sofa, certain that my flu had progressed and I was now suffering from delusions. His shaggy brown hair was tipped in gold; his rugged, beautiful, masculine face relaxed in slumber. The beginnings of a beard, slightly darker than his hair, shadowed his strong jawline.

Sam. My Sam. No longer a boy, but all grown-up.

I was grown up now, too, and the things I felt looking at him now were far different than those I had felt so long ago. All these years I had been thinking of him, hoping to one day see him again, and here he was.

How had he found me? More importantly, why?

Suddenly aware of how I must look, embarrassment washed over me. For years, I had been imagining what it would be like to see him again, and never once had I pictured looking like roadkill when I did. Then again, those had been dreams and fantasies. I had never actually believed it would happen.

I rose up slowly, letting my head adjust to the change in position. I still felt weak and dizzy, but not nearly as bad as I had.

Something slipped off my shoulders. I looked down and saw a coat. Sam’s coat. It smelled like him—fresh and clean with a touch of pine, sunshine, and mountain air. No wonder I had slept so well and had such pleasant dreams.

Sam shifted, but he didn’t wake up.

I quietly grabbed some clean clothes and tiptoed to the bathroom, where I washed up and brushed my teeth. I wasn’t one hundred percent, but I felt significantly more human afterward. I could hear Sam ambling around my small space and knew he was awake.

Taking a deep breath, as deep as I could without inducing another coughing fit, I prepared to face him. Opening the door, I saw him stirring something on my hot plate.

He looked huge in the small space, so much bigger than an average man. Then again, nothing about Sam had ever been average.

I paused in the doorway, content just to drink him in.

As a boy, he had been cute. As a man, he was stunningly gorgeous.

Those big, golden-brown eyes lifted and took me in. I was now fully dressed, with my face washed, my hair combed, and my teeth brushed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he rumbled. Yes, rumbled. It sent shivers of awareness through me, shivers that had nothing to do with my sickness and everything to do with that deep, masculine voice. “You should be in bed.” He lifted his chin in that direction, and I noticed he had changed the sheets while I had been in the bathroom. “Go on, now. I heated up some soup.”

Warmth bloomed in my chest. He couldn’t possibly know how much I appreciated his concern, but I never had been the mushy type. So instead, I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at him, familiar words coming to mind.

“You’re not the boss of me.”

His lips quirked. They were full and male, and I couldn’t help wondering what they would be like to kiss.

“I am today. Bed. Soup. Then we’ll talk.”

I stared at him stubbornly, refusing to back down. Having been on my own for a long time, I wasn’t used to people ordering me around. Plus, I had been bullied my whole childhood, but that had stopped the day I turned eighteen and left for good.

His eyes softened. “Please, Chloe,” he said. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Something inside me softened, too. I was swaying on my feet.

I went back to the bed and sat down.

Sam crossed the room in two long strides, put the soup on the bedside stand, then reached down and swung my legs so I was sitting up in bed. I watched in fascination as he then drew the covers over me and sat down beside me. Had he been anyone else, I would have kicked him out, flu or no flu. But Sam was different. I liked the fact that he wanted to care for me. I always had. I wanted to care for him, too, but even as a kid, he’d been so capable, while I struggled simply to survive.

“Thanks,” I said when he placed the bowl in my hands. The aroma of Mr. O’Malley’s potato soup reached my nostrils, making my stomach rumble. It was good to feel hungry again. “I’m guessing you’re the reason my place is warm and I have hot water.”

He shrugged. “I needed to do something to keep myself busy while you were snoring away in bed.”

“Wait. How long have I been sleeping?”

“About thirty-six hours, give or take.”

Thirty-six hours? No wonder I felt so rested.

“You’ve been here all this time?”

“I just found you again, Chloe. I’m not about to leave.”

His words surprised me, and a small kaleidoscope of butterflies tried to take flight in my chest.

“Found me? Does that mean you were looking?”

“I never stopped.”