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)
We’re alone. Quiet stretches, thick and warm.
I take a sip, set my mug down. “You did good tonight.”
She laughs. “I didn’t trip once. That’s rare for me.”
“I’m talking about the gala. You made the whole place brighter.”
“Flattery,” she teases lightly, “from the guy who ran away from mistletoe.”
I cough. “That’s not—”
“Oh, that’s exactly what happened,” she says, poking my knee with her toe. “You bolted.”
“I didn’t bolt.”
“You vanished so fast, I’m shocked you didn’t leave behind a cartoon dust cloud.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Maybe I was keeping us out of trouble.”
She goes still. “Is that what you think we are? Trouble?”
I study her.
The firelight warms her face. Her lips are softly curved, eyes too bright, too curious, too open. The red dress is mostly hidden under her coat, but the neckline still glows like a warning sign.
“Yes,” I say. “And I’ve been trying real hard to stay on the right side of that line.”
“Why?” She whispers.
I lean back on the couch, trying to find space between us that doesn’t exist. “Because once I cross that line, Lucy, I’m not crossing back.”
Her inhale is sharp. “You talk like that’s a bad thing.”
“It should be,” I say. “Should be a disaster.”
“Should be,” she agrees softly. “But is it?”
God, this woman.
I want her. I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in years. And Holly’s letter sits in my pocket like a goddamn spark plug.
Lucy takes a sip of cocoa and sets the mug down gently. The muffled thud echoes in my skull. She tucks her hair behind her ear — a small, nervous gesture that makes my pulse spike.
“You kept looking at me tonight,” she says.
“You noticed.”
“You weren’t subtle, Ash.”
I drag in a breath. “I’m not good at being subtle.”
She smiles, flustered but brave. “I liked it.”
Silence cracks open between us.
“Lucy,” I say, voice low. “I need you to understand something.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“I can’t imagine a Christmas without you.”
She freezes. Her chest rises slowly, breath trembling, lips parting as if she’s trying to speak but can’t quite find the words.
“Ash…” she whispers.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped. “You fit here. With me. With Holly. With… everything. I didn’t expect that. Didn’t want to expect that. But I can’t pretend it’s not happening.”
She swallows hard. Her gaze flicks to the bedroom where Holly sleeps, then back to me.
“I didn’t expect any of this either,” she admits. “You’re… a lot.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah. I know.”
“But you’re also… good.” Her voice softens. “And steady. And impossible to ignore.”
My heart stutters. She edges closer — barely a shift, her knee brushing mine. A soft jolt of heat shoots up my leg. Her eyes drop to where our knees touch, and she exhales shakily.
“Ash?” she murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“If you’re trying to be careful, you’re doing a terrible job.”
“I know.” My voice is quiet, raw. “Because every time I’m near you, I forget why I’m supposed to be.”
Her lips curve — small, stunned, aching. I reach out before I can stop myself, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Her breath shivers. She leans — barely — into the touch.
I don’t pull back. Neither does she.
Her hand lifts, fingertips grazing my jaw. My breath catches. Her thumb sweeps along the line of my cheekbone, slow and warm. It’s nothing. Just a touch. But it’s also everything.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say, voice thick.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m the only thing in the room.”
Her lips part. “Ash… maybe you are.”
That does it. I move without thinking. My hand slides to her waist, pulling her closer. Her breath catches, her fingers curling lightly against my neck.
We’re inches apart. Too close. Not close enough. Her eyes flick to my mouth, and her voice breaks in a whisper: “I don’t want to leave tonight.”
My control fractures.
“Lucy,” I murmur, “don’t say that unless you mean it.”
Her fingers tighten at the back of my neck.
“I mean it.”
A sound leaves me — rough, low, half a curse. I lean in until my forehead meets hers, breathing her in, fighting the urge to close the last inch between us.
Her hands slide down my chest, slow, gentle, shaking.
“Ash…” she breathes.
I cup her face, thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ve wanted you since the first minute I saw you.”
She swallows hard. “Then why haven’t you—”
“Because once I start,” I say roughly, “there’s no stopping. Not with you.”
She trembles. “Ash…”
We stay like that, suspended between a choice and a fall, breaths tangled, bodies nearly touching. Then a soft creak from the hallway. Holly rolls over in bed. We freeze. Our foreheads still touching. Our breaths still shared. But neither of us moves another inch.
Her fingers slip from my chest. My hands loosen on her waist. The spell breaks—not because we wanted it to, but because reality nudged in just enough to stop us from crossing the line we’re both desperate to cross.