“Talk to me, Wesley,” she begged. He grew more courageous with every kiss. His hands roamed over her arms, her br**sts, and even slid between her legs and caressed her through the fabric of her silk pajamas. “Tell me what you want to do.”

Wesley placed a hand on the side of her face and caressed her cheekbone with his thumb.

“I want to be inside you.” He breathed the words.

She reached between them and unbuttoned his jeans.

“Nora—” She heard a note of panic in his voice.

“We can get under the covers. Would that help?” She hoped he would say yes. Maybe it would help her, too.

“I’m the guy. I’m the one who should be saying that,” Wesley said with a rueful smile.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m older and a slut. Let me handle it, okay?” Could she handle it? She wanted to stop, wanted to talk to him before they went any further. She hadn’t been nervous like this in years. The night she gave her virginity to Søren felt like destiny. This felt like fear.

Wesley laughed. “Okay. Yeah, I would feel much more comfortable under the covers.”

Nora scooted off one side of the bed as Wesley slid off the other. As they pulled the sheets back, the pages of her novel fell off the bed and to the floor. Wesley picked them up and glanced at them.

Nora crawled across the bed toward him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. But Wesley didn’t respond. He just kept reading.

“It’s just fiction.” Nora kissed his shoulder.

“William and Caroline?” Wesley finally tore his eyes from the page. “That’s your father’s name and my mother’s name. Is this about us?”

Nora shook her head. “No, not really.”

“Not really?” Wesley took a step away from her and grabbed his shirt off the floor. Feeling both defeated and relieved, Nora pulled her camisole back on and sat cross-legged on the bed.

“No, it isn’t our story. He’s not quite me. She’s not quite you. It’s just inspired by us, by things I’ve thought about because of our relationship. They’re lovers. We’re just friends. Or were. Jesus, Wes. Did you plan this?” Nora couldn’t quite finish the question; the enormity of what they’d almost done together finally hitting her as she surveyed her disheveled bed.

“You quit your other job. I thought now maybe it might mean as much to you—”

“God, Wesley, it does mean as much to me.”

“Or is this just about your book?” he asked, holding the pages in his hand. He glanced down and scanned them. “The Gift of the Magi. That’s my favorite short story.”

“I know. It’s what they’re talking about the evening before this scene happens, about what people have to give up when they’re together.”

“So what is his watch? My virginity? I was ready to give that to you.”

“Your innocence. So much more valuable and so much more traumatic to lose.”

“And her hair, what’s that? You’ve already given up your job with King.”

“But I haven’t stopped being who I am.”

“It isn’t who you are, Nora. It’s just what you do.”

“Even if I’m not doing it for money, it’s still who I am. And I can’t sell it, not even to buy you a watch chain. It’s what writes my books and makes me me. It’s the only thing I have of value. And even if you wanted to give me your innocence, wanted to come into my world with combs for my hair, I can’t let you do that. So where does that leave us? You tell me.”

“With no Christmas presents, I guess.”

“I guess not,” Nora said, suddenly exhausted.

Wesley weighed the pages in his hands, flipped through them and pressed them to his chest.

“Why did you write this? Write a book about us?”

“Because I guess I’ve always known you and I can’t be together. God, I thought I was going to faint a few minutes ago trying to have vanilla sex with you. I hate that we have this thing between us. It kills me a little bit every day. The book— I don’t know. I guess I thought at least we could be together on paper for a little while. It’s not much, but it’s something,” she said, trying and failing to smile.

“Let me read it. All of it.”

“You don’t want to read it, sweetheart.”

“You said it was us.”

Nora remained unmoved.

“Please,” Wesley said, and Nora heard the slight but desperate catch in his voice. Nodding, she slid off the bed and retreated to her office. She grabbed the binder that held her most recent copy of her novel and returned to her bedroom.

“It’s not done yet. I still have about eight or so chapters to write.”

“How does it end?”

“I don’t know,” she lied.

“The Consolation Prize.” He opened the binder and read the title out loud.

“Yeah, the consolation prize. You know, it’s what you get when you don’t win.”

“What do you want to win?” In his voice was a quiet promise that if he could give it to her he would.

“You, Wes. But I can’t win you without selling who I am to afford you.”

“And I can’t win you without selling my soul, right?” Wesley asked.

“Now you see why I said The Gift of the Magi was a horror story.”

Wesley only looked at her before turning his eyes to her novel.