Chapter 8
Mac's POV.
"Damnit Mac, I'm in love with you too!"
I didn't expect him to return the sentiment. Truth be told, I've been waiting for the other boot to drop from the moment he first touched me. This, all of this, is just too good to be true.
I want him. I love him but girls like me aren't used to getting everything that we want so easily. Not that our relationship is an easy one. It's taken me time to realize how much he cares for me and set aside our squabbling at work.
His hands are on either side of the armrest and Harm's face is just a few inches away from mine. In my head my internal clock begins to count backwards from ten signaling that Christmas is finally here.
Harm's speaking to me and as more fireworks flash in the sky I lean forward and cup his face in my hands. "Merry Christmas."
"Mac, what?" He seems confused but doesn't pull away.
"It's midnight. It's Christmas." I clarify and he turns away to see the rainbow of sparkling lights overhead. "Did you mean it? What you said?"
He faces me again, leans even closer so that his lips are a breath away from mine. "This isn't easy for me. I don't know how to do this and make it mean something." Harm licks his lips and closes his eyes. "Yeah. Yes, I meant what I said."
When he opens his eyes I tremble from what I see. He's serious and even a little pained but the expression quickly changes as my hands cup his face again. "I meant it too. As much as I'm scared to admit this - you're it for me. I don't want one weekend or one week or two weeks. It's not enough."
He shakes his head. "No, it's not. I want more and you're not the only one terrified to admit that." Harm kissed me hard, the kind of kiss that leaves you completely breathless but wanting more at the same time. His arms shake as they hold his weight on the armrest. Those same arms wrap around me when I stand and he holds me tightly beneath the explosions in the sky.
Harm's POV.
I know I'm grinning like an idiot but, it's with good reason. It's Christmas morning, we sit on the sofa exchanging the gifts we brought from home and a couple that we bought in town. From my index finger hangs a keyring with a tiny wooden stearman dangling from a chain.
"I was told you could paint it if you wanted to." Mac points out. She found the plane in town and couldn't resist sneaking it in as a gift. "I think you like it."
"I do. Not sure if I'll paint her." I say and use my other finger to make it swing back and forth. "It looks unique this way." Although I did build and paint the model of Sarah that sits on my desk.
She unravels the wrapped square box I hand her, a ridiculously expensive perfume I bought at Macy's. I know Mac used to wear a fragrance named Fixation but, after Coster she tossed out the bottles and avoided it ever since. It's a pity because it smelled incredible on her.
Mac sniffs the cap and then does that girly thing where she spritzes her wrist and waves it in the air to dry the fragrance. A moment later she's closing her eyes, smelling her wrist and then offering it to me. "Wow, this is amazing on you."
She's beaming and her smile is absolutely infectious. Mac leans in, presses a kiss on my cheek and utters a soft 'thank you' that sounds absolutely sultry.
After kissing beneath the fireworks we spent the first hours of Christmas sitting in front of the lit tree. We didn't speak much and I was content to sit and bask in whatever the moment offered.
We slept in the same bed and I can't get over how good it feels to have her body pressed against mine. The bed was empty in the morning and I followed the scent of freshly made waffles, the Belgian kind, she informed me.
"Open your other present." I push the little box towards her. It's a silver bracelet with the letter 'S' engraved on the top. Two days ago the gift meant little more than a present to a good friend. Today, I'm giving a piece of jewelry to a woman I care deeply for. I lament that it's not something expensive or shiny, girls like those kinds of things. But I'm not the jewelry kind of guy and have never given a woman anything but flowers.
Mac slips it on her wrist and admires the way it looks. "I love it!"
Her last gift to me is a beautiful wooden frame with a specific year etched to the bottom '1969.' She explains that it was meant to hold the picture of dad and me. The original one had been damaged when the shelf that displayed it suddenly fell. I'm touched by the gesture and gently place it on the coffee table. "I don't know what to say."
"It's just a frame."
"No, Mac. It's much more than that." I swipe at a tear and then pull her close. "Thank you."