Quite frequently, I would look up in the restaurant to see him standing there. It was still a lovely novelty to me. He would always smile at me across the room as if to say, “You—yes you, Bailey Edgeworth—are the prettiest woman in here, and you are going home with me tonight.” I would smile back, and we would always make our way to the middle of the room just to be near each other.

After a lifetime of feeling not at home in the world, I felt at home with Elliott. He grounded me. He made me feel mature. And always, he made me feel like a woman. He still had his back pain, and he had nights where sleep refused his entry, but he would give in and finally take some pills. Many nights, I was the one up late ordering things for Griffin’s condo. I would often wake in the morning with my pen in one hand and my computer in the other. Griffin groused occasionally about all the boxes that arrived.

“Are you sure you’re staying in my budget?” he complained.

Fall collapsed into the holidays. I would go home the three weeks before Christmas, which would allow Elliott to go home too.

“Darling, as much as I hate it, why don’t you spend Christmas in Atlanta with the other men in your life? I think New Year’s Eve is much more romantic anyway, don’t you? I dread going to England like a mother! I’ll have to listen to Pop’s criticism that I only have one successful restaurant. If that isn’t bad enough, I have to deal with Lady Jane and finalizing the end of this disastrous marriage. It will be perfectly horrid. The thing that will keep me going is you. Coming home to the beginning of another new year and celebrating with the love of my life. You just might get me through this week of a perfect shit storm.”

“Well, Merry Christmas to you, too, Scrooge!” I laughed.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve already been shopping for you,” Elliott said, shifting his mood.

“Does shopping equate to buying?” I asked.

“You will just have to wait and see what Santa left behind for you. And then you can determine if you have been naughty or nice,” he said with a little twinkle in his eye.

“Well that just begs the question—does Santa want me to be naughty or nice?” I walked into his arms.

“It would help his feelings tremendously if you were very, very naughty.”

“Then I will just have to be very bad.” We lingered in bed. It didn’t even matter that he was crossing the pond and I was boarding a plane to Atlanta.

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One