Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Behind me, the music swells again.
Lucy’s laugh drifts across the room, warm and sweet and devastating. And I know with absolute certainty that tonight wasn’t the breaking point.
It was the warning.
The next time I get her alone?
There won’t be any holding back.
Chapter Twenty
Ash
Holly’s handwriting is terrible.
I’m talking… catastrophic. Letters shaped like confused worms, backward S’s, an occasional heart dotting an i that absolutely should not be dotted with a heart.
Normally it’s charming.
Tonight it guts me.
I find the letter tucked under her pillow while I’m checking to make sure she’s asleep after the gala. The firehouse was a late night, and she crashed the moment we got home. I tuck her blanket higher, brush her hair away from her forehead, and see the corner of the envelope sticking out addressed to Santa in red crayon, a crooked star next to his name.
She’s forgotten to put it in her stocking like she usually does.
So I slide it out carefully, planning to help her deliver it tomorrow, and then I read it.
My chest squeezes so tight it hurts.
Dear Santa,
Please help Uncle Ash not be lonely. He works so hard. And he gets sad when he thinks I’m not looking.
Please send him someone who can fix his heart. I think Miss Lucy can. She makes him smile for real. Not just his pretend one.
Love, Holly
My knees go weak. I sit on the edge of her bed and just… stare at her handwriting until the words blur. God. This kid. She sees everything. Everything I try to lock down. Everything I tell myself I’m hiding.
Lonely.
Is that what she sees when she looks at me? Maybe she’s right. Maybe she’s always been right.
I fold the letter carefully, sliding it back where I found it. Holly sighs in her sleep, hugging her teddy bear tighter.
My throat tightens.
Miss Lucy can fix him.
I scrub a hand over my face, dragging in a breath. The girl’s six. Six. But somehow she’s the only person on the damn mountain who can cut straight through the armor I’ve built.
And she’s not wrong. Lucy is the only person who’s made me feel alive in months.
Years.
I push up from the bed and head into the living room, needing water, air, anything to keep my brain from spinning itself into a knot.
But before I make it three steps there’s a knock. My heart kicks. I open the door. Lucy is standing on my porch, snowflakes caught in her hair, cheeks flushed from the cold, breath fogging in the air… holding a tiny pair of pink mittens.
She lifts them weakly. “Holly left these in the car.”
I should say thank you.
I should say come in out of the cold.
I should say literally anything normal.
But that all goes straight out the window because Lucy’s eyes dip to my torso and widen.
Right. I’m shirtless. I forgot I pulled off my dress shirt the moment I got home because it was suffocating me after the near-kiss at the firehouse under the goddamn mistletoe.
We both freeze.
The snow falls harder, silent and slow, dusting her hair and shoulders. Her gaze drags down my chest, stops at my stomach, skims back up. She swallows.
“Uh,” she says, voice barely working. “Sorry. I should’ve texted.”
“You’re fine,” I manage. My voice sounds lower than normal. Rougher. “Come in.”
She hesitates only a second before stepping inside. The warmth hits her immediately — she shivers, brushing snow from her coat sleeve. I take the mittens from her, our fingers brushing, and the contact sears like a live wire.
She licks her lips, nervous. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. I just—after the gala—I wasn’t sure she’d need them tomorrow, so—”
“You’re not interrupting anything.”
Liar.
She interrupts everything.
My thoughts. My balance. My ability to breathe normally.
Lucy steps deeper into the room, hugging her arms to her chest. “I guess I should go…”
“No,” I say too quickly. “Stay. If you want.”
Her breath catches.
“Cocoa?” I ask, nodding toward the kitchen before I talk myself out of it.
For a split second, she searches my face like she’s trying to figure out whether I’m asking as the friendly neighbor… or as the man who nearly kissed her the last time I saw her.
She nods softly. “Yeah. Cocoa sounds nice.”
I turn away so she won’t see the way my jaw flexes with relief.
Making cocoa gives my hands something to do. I boil the milk, add the mix, sprinkle the cinnamon Holly insists on even though she claims she hates it. Lucy wanders to the window, watching the snow fall, her silhouette outlined in the warm yellow light. Her hair still sparkles with melting flakes. She looks beautiful. Too beautiful.
I hand her a mug. Our fingers brush again, and her breath shivers. She looks up at me through her lashes.
“Thank you.”
The words shouldn’t hit as low as they do.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, legs angled, knees almost touching. The fire crackles in the wood stove. Outside, the snow glows under the porch light.