Page 19 of Silent Night Temptation

“Morning,” his voice is a low rumble, still thick with sleep, but there’s a warmth in it that makes my stomach flip.

I turn to face him, and he’s propped up on one elbow, his eyes half lidded but focused on me. There’s a small, sleepy smile on his lips. For a split second, I let myself get lost in the sight of him; the firm lines of his jaw, the tousled brown hair, the way the blanket hangs low on his hips, revealing just enough to make my heart race.

“Morning,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.

He sits up fully now, running a hand through his hair and then looking at me with a softness that tugs at something deep inside me. “Come back to bed,” he says, his voice gentle but firm, like it’s not really a suggestion.

I consider it. I want to.God, how I want to.But reality crashes back down, and I shake my head.

“We need to talk,” I say, my voice cracking slightly on the words.

Marcus’s expression shifts, the softness replaced by something more guarded. He doesn’t move, but I can see the tension in his shoulders and the way his jaw tightens ever so slightly.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now. “I guess we do.”

Before either of us can say another word, the sound of his phone ringing fills the room, breaking the tension. I glance over at the nightstand, and my heart sinks when I see the name flashing on the screen. It’s Coco.

Marcus reaches for his phone, and in that single motion, it feels as though my heart lodges itself in my throat. My breath catches, and I freeze.

He brings the phone to his ear, and I hear the faintest murmur of Coco’s voice on the other end of the line. It’s too muffled for me to make out the words, but the familiar cadence of her tone sends an icy wave of panic washing over me. My chest tightens, and my pulse quickens with every passing second.

Marcus’s responses come slowly and deliberate. Far too calm for the storm brewing inside me.

“Yeah,” he whispers, his voice steady as ever. “I know… The roads should be clear now.”

He listens for a moment longer, nodding even though she can’t see him. And then he says, “Have a safe flight, kiddo.”

He lowers the phone. The conversation is over, but it feels like the world has just tilted on its axis.

Coco is on her way.

Panic flares in my chest, and I feel like I can’t breathe. Here I am with her father, in his house, standing in nothing but a blanket after spending the night in his bed.

What have I done?

Marcus swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands. The blanket slips away as he moves toward me. He’s so calm, so steady, and I hate that I’m falling apart while he’s standing there like nothing’s changed.

“I’ll handle it,” he says quietly, his eyes locking with mine. “Whatever happens with Coco, I’ll handle it.”

I want to believe him. I want to believe that everything will be okay, that we’ll figure this out. But the fear is too strong and suffocating.

“What if she hates me?” I whisper, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “What if I lose her, Marcus? She’s my best friend.”

He steps closer, his hands reaching for mine. I let him take them and pull me into his arms. I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“She won’t hate you,” he says, his voice soothing. “We’ll explain. She’ll understand.”

I want to believe him, but I’m not sure I can.

Before I can say anything else, Marcus gently pulls back and presses a soft kiss on my forehead. “Why don’t we go downstairs? I’ll make us some breakfast, and we can figure this out together.”

I nod, though I’m no more certain than I was a moment ago. As he lets me go, I step back, clutching the blanket tighter around me while he gets dressed.

The tension clings to me like a shadow as we make our way downstairs. The kitchen feels unnervingly quiet, the stillness heavy. The thought of the conversation with Coco looms, sharp and inevitable, like a pin waiting to drop. Marcus moves around the kitchen with brisk precision, as if throwing himself into breakfast might somehow smooth things over. I sit at the table, my fingers drumming anxiously along the edge of the wooden surface.

When he turns to me, sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of me, I can’t help but give him a small, strained smile. “Merry Christmas,” he says softly.

“Merry Christmas,” I respond. The words slipping from my lips soft and careful, but devoid of the warmth usually woven into such a greeting. Even as I say it, the phrase feels hollow, stirring up painful memories like a gust of chilly wind that sweeps through old, unhealed wounds. I’ve never been good at the holidays, not for a long time. The memories of what Christmas means to me. The scars lying just beneath the surface are raw and aching whenever I allow myself to remember.

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