But finally.

Finally.

Our schedules somehow aligned and we made a date with each other.

The Saturday before Christmas, no less.

I show up at the doorstep of her apartment a few minutes early with a gift in hand. I hope she doesn’t think I’ve gone overboard, but come on. This gift isn’t that big of a deal. I have a feeling she’ll really like it though.

Stepping forward, I knock on the door and then stay planted on the Christmas-y doormat, waiting for her to answer.

The door swings open a few seconds later, and my mouth pops open at first sight. She’s so damn beautiful, it almost hurts to look at her. Her hair is down and hangs perfectly straight, and she’s got on this black, very soft-looking sweater that makes me want to touch her.

Oh, come on. She could be wearing anything—or nothing at all—and I’d always want to touch her.

Her gaze drops to the gift hanging from my hand and her face lights up as she lifts her head to flash me a brilliant smile. “Is that for me?”

I hold the thick, fresh pine wreath out to her. “Straight off of Sullivan Farms.”

“Oh my gosh.” She takes the wreath from me and brings it up to her face, taking a deep sniff, her eyes falling closed for a brief second. “It smells amazing.”

“That’s why I brought it for you. I knew you’d like it. Well, that and it looks good. One of the last wreaths we had left.” I smile.

She smiles back. “Come in. It’s cold.”

I step inside her apartment, and the moment the door is shut, she’s on me. We wrap our arms around each other and our mouths are fused. Kissing her feels like coming home—which is some straight-up corny shit and maybe it’s the season or whatever, but it’s true. She feels good. She feels right.

Right for me.

Once we finally come up for air I follow Amelia around the apartment, taking note of how clean and elegant the décor is, just like the woman who lives here. I watch as she clutches the wreath in both hands, her head swiveling left and right as she nibbles on her lower lip, looking for a place to put it.

“Most people hang their wreath on their front door,” I suggest.

“No. No way.” She shakes her head, smiling faintly. “I want it inside of my apartment so I can enjoy looking at it and smelling it.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” I tell her, making her laugh.

“I think it could go right there.” She points at a blank sliver of wall that flanks the right side of her sliding glass door. She glances over her shoulder with hopeful eyes. “Maybe you could hang it for me?”

I’d do anything for her if she keeps looking at me like that. I bet she knows it too. “You have a nail and hammer?”

“Yes, but I have one of those 3M sticky hooks I’d rather use instead,” she says. “You think it would support the wreath?”