Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
When she returns, she’s holding a medium-size white box. She sets it in front of me and gestures lightly. “It’s not… I mean, my gift isn’t the same.”
“Don’t worry, I keep competition confined to the ice rink and business. I’m so grateful you’re here in the first place.” I slowly undo the bow and open the box.
Inside is a scarf. Green, black and white. Vipers’ colors.
I lift it carefully, letting the garment fall open in my hands, and it takes only a second to understand what I’m looking at—not purchased, not sourced or bought at a designer store, but hand-made. The texture gives it away immediately, the subtle imperfections that make it perfect.
I look up at her. “You made this?”
She shrugs, but there’s a quiet pride beneath it. “I had a few late nights this past week.”
The simplicity of the statement doesn’t lessen it. If anything, it gives it more meaning.
It must’ve taken her hours and hours to knit this. She only had a few days.
I run my fingers along the edge of it, taking in the detail, the beauty, the fact that she remembered a comment made in passing and then acted on it.
“You mentioned Big Al’s scarf,” she adds, a little more softly now. “How much you liked it.”
“I love it,” I say, because there’s no other response even remotely sufficient.
And I do. Not because of what it is, but because of what it represents.
I set it beside me with more care than I would anything else, my attention lingering there before lifting back to her.
And it hits me then. I haven’t spent Christmas with a woman since before my life was upended years ago.
This place, and this time of year, has always been separate. A refuge I didn’t share, not because I couldn’t, but because I never saw a reason to.
Until now. Until Harper.
And as I sit across from this woman—this woman who spent God knows how many hours making a gift for me with her own hands, who listens in a way most people don’t, who notices the details that matter—I understand a truth with a certainty that leaves no room for doubt.
I didn’t bring her here on impulse. I chose her.
And for the first time in a very long time, that choice feels exactly right.
Dinner lingers. Harper’s the type of company I want more of. By the time the plates are cleared and the last of the wine sits untouched between us, night has descended.
I rise first, circling the table before offering her my hand. She stands and I pull her into me, placing my mouth on hers. She sighs into the kiss, sinks into my body completely. When I pull back, I look down into semi-dazzled eyes. “I’ve got a separate room for you if you want, but I’d really like you to stay with me.”
She stares at me before sliding her hand into mine and squeezing. It’s electric, like when everything falls into place at the right time, reinforcing this sentiment that’s followed me all evening. “I’d love that,” she murmurs.
We move through the villa without speaking, and I lead her upstairs.
The bedroom is open to the night. Wide glass doors, sheer curtains moving in the breeze, the lamps low and warm. Beyond the primary suite’s terrace, the sea breathes against the cliffs, both dark and endless.
She steps inside, stopping in the middle of the room to look around. The breeze lifts the hem of her dress against her smooth thigh.
She turns, our eyes connecting, and her face does this thing where she tries to look composed and fails. A blush climbs up her body. Her hand moves to her collarbone like she can press it back down.
“Julian…”
I cross the room to her.
I don’t kiss her right away. I want to look at her first. I cup her jaw with one hand and tilt her face up and just—look. She lets me. Her lashes flutter. Her breath quickens. There’s no pretense. She doesn’t know what to do with being looked at like this, and so she does nothing, which is the most undoing thing she could possibly do.
Her eyes go wide. Then dark. Her lips part.
Then I kiss her slowly. I kiss her the way I’d kiss her if we had all night and the rest of my life, because we do, because I’ve decided we do. Her mouth is warm and hesitant for half a second before something inside her gives, and then she’s kissing me back like she’s been wanting to all day, maybe longer, hands flat against my chest, then gripping, then climbing to my shoulders to pull me closer.
And I let her. I let her feel exactly what she’s doing to me.
When my hips meet hers and she realizes how hard I am through the linen of my trousers, she makes a startled inhale and her fingers tighten on my shoulders.