Page 72 of One Night with Number Nineteen

“I’m afraid that he won’t remember Ben at all,” I whisper.

A pause. A hand smoothing down my back. Then, “You’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

I freeze, every fiber in my body going taut.

Then I relax.

Because…

“You’re right,” I whisper.

I sigh softly, resting my forehead against his chest, knowing I should let him leave, let him go home and rest before the flight tomorrow and the bevy of upcoming road games in the following days.

But it’s nice to be with Sawyer.

And…it’s nice to be held like this.

“Did you have any other Christmas traditions?” I ask, stalling for a bit more time in his arms, for just a smidge more of this fantasy.

Of putting Ollie to bed and coming down to find Sawyer in my kitchen.

Only it’s not just sneaking in a few minutes before he has to go home.

Because it’s Sawyer’s house too.

Even as that thought slides through me, gentle as a babbling brook, a tsunami comes and pounds me in its wake.

Because what the hell am I thinking?

What the hell am I doing?

It’s only been a year since I lost Ben, and I shouldn’t⁠—

No. I can’t.

Because what if⁠—

“We had a lot of traditions,” Sawyer says and something about his tone has steel doors slamming down around the panic in my mind.

“Yeah?” I ask softly.

“Then my dad died.”

I jerk in his arms, start to lean back, but he just tightens his hold. “It’s not like that, Pages,” he says gently. “I was older, almost ten.”

“You were still just a baby.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Nah, I was focused, knew I wanted to be in the NHL, so my life was hockey. Practices and games and tournaments. Extra off-ice and strength training and watching as much hockey as possible.” His voice drops. “I told myself I didn’t have time for making lists for Santa or opening presents on Christmas morning.”

There’s pain in his voice.

And, when I lean back, it’s in his eyes too.

“Why?” I ask softly.

His gaze drifts away. “Why you’d expect,” he says just as softly. “His death was sudden and Mom had a hard time managing everything. She wasn’t working and had a kid in an expensive sport. Things were tight, and as much as a nine-year-old boy might pretend it didn’t matter, Santa doesn’t come for poor kids—at least not this poor kid.”

“Sawyer,” I whisper, heart hurting for him.