Page 11 of Silent Night Temptation

I stare down at my phone again, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, wanting to say something, to steer the conversation back to normal. But there’s no normal now. Not with this. Not with Marcus Davenport lingering in the back of my mind like a forbidden temptation I can’t escape.

Instead, I let the silence settle between us, my phone still in my hand.

And then a scent hits me. A tantalizing aroma floats up to my room, pulling me out of my thoughts and back into the present. It’s warm, rich, and comforting. My stomach grumbles softly in response, reminding me that it’s been hours since I last ate, and whatever is simmering downstairs smells far too good to ignore.

I slip on my slippers, smoothing out my shirt as I head for the door. My movements are quiet, tentative almost, but there’s an odd anticipation building in me. As I make my way down the staircase, I can hear faint sounds from the kitchen, cutlery clinking against plates, the soft shuffle of movement. The storm outside still rages, but in here, surrounded by the warmth and the scent of home cooked food, I feel a strange kind of peace.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and step into the dining area. There, at the table, is Mr. Davenport, placing down a final plate with the same easy grace that seems to accompany everything he does. He hears me coming before I speak and looks up with a smile, a small, welcoming curve of his lips that somehow makes my heart stumble in my chest.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he says, his voice low and warm.

I return his smile, trying not to let the flutter of nerves in my stomach show as I walk to the table and take a seat.

Usually, this would be the part where I felt awkward and self conscious. Eating around new people is always a bit nerve-wracking for me, especially if that new person is an infuriatingly handsome man who has somehow managed to unsettle everything I thought I knew about attraction in the span of a few hours. But Mr. Davenport’s presence is different. There’s a calmness to him, an ease that washes over me as he sits across from me, making me forget the knot of anxiety that usually curls itself around my insides in moments like this.

And then there’s the food. The most appetizing plate of pasta I’ve ever seen.

I take my first bite and nearly melt into my seat. It’s delicious. Simple, yet rich with flavor in a way that feels like comfort wrapped in every morsel. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I started eating. But now, each bite feels like it’s easing something deep inside me, something I didn’t know I needed.

“You must have been starving,” he chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches me dig into the meal with what I can only assume is the enthusiasm of a starving woman.

I pause, bashful for a moment, wiping my mouth quickly with the napkin. “It’s so tasty,” I offer, hoping the slight embarrassment doesn’t creep too visibly into my expression.

He waves it off, still smiling as he picks at his own plate, and to my surprise, conversation flows easily between us. It’s not like earlier during the drive, where every word I spoke felt clumsy, like it didn’t quite fit. Now, it’s different. I’m different. He makes it so natural, so effortless to talk to him, as though we’ve known each other far longer than a day. We speak about work, our lives on opposite sides of the spectrum. Me, living in words and stories. Him, with his empire in producing construction equipment and taking on projects that cost figures I can barely fathom. It’s a world of business and control that feels foreign to me but somehow fascinating when he talks about it.

And then we talk about Coco.

There’s a tenderness in his voice when he speaks about her, and I can’t help but be drawn in by it. It’s endearing to see how much he cares, the way his entire demeanor shifts when her name is mentioned, as if the world itself narrows down to her. I understand it, that fierce protectiveness, that need to shield her from anything that might hurt her. It mirrors my own feelings for her, though differently.

The conversation slows as we finish eating, and for a brief moment, the room falls quiet. All I hear is the soft hum of the storm outside, but even that feels distant.

I glance across the table at him. He’s still, watching me with a quiet intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. It’s not the same look I caught earlier, not exactly. But there’s something in his eyes, something I can’t quite place. My pulse quickens, the pull between us evident, like a current drawing me toward him even though I know I shouldn’t move.

Before I can fully grasp it, he speaks, breaking the silence. His voice is soft, but there’s a weight to his words.

“So… it seems you’re quite close to Coco. She’s never asked for anyone to join our vacation before,” he starts. It’s a safe conversation, one that eases the awkwardness without requiring too much commitment.

I smile. “Yeah, she’s my best friend. I’m grateful she thought to include me. She was just trying to help,” I respond.

I see his brows furrow as though he’s not sure if he should speak. “That’s right… Coco mentioned you were having a bit of a rough time.” His tone is careful, concerned, but not intrusive. Still, the words land heavily, hitting a nerve I wasn’t prepared for. “…She said you needed support right now. Is it something you’d want to talk about?”

The shift in conversation is startling. I wasn’t expecting him to go there. My heart skips a beat, anxiety curling like an icy hand around my throat. I can feel the familiar prickling at the back of my neck, a warning sign of the memories that are about to flood in, uninvited. Memories of pain, of dark, endless nights when I thought there was no way out. Of moments where I didn’t know if I could keep going.

I avert my gaze, staring down at my hands, my fingers tracing the edge of the napkin as I try to steady my breath. My throatfeels dry, my pulse loud in my ears. He’s watching me. I can feel it, and it only makes the weight of my past feel more unbearable.

“Hey…” he says gently, his voice a little closer now, though I don’t look up. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

I’m not. I’m really not. But the last thing I want is to break down here, now, in front of him. I can’t talk about this, not yet. Not when I’m still piecing myself back together, trying to hold on to whatever fragile sense of stability I have left. I nod, swallowing against the lump in my throat, and manage to find my voice.

“This was a beautiful dinner, Mr. Davenport…” I stand, my chair scraping softly against the floor. “…but I’m exhausted. Excuse me.”

He doesn’t press me, doesn’t ask for more than I’m ready to give. His eyes are kind and understanding. I’m grateful.

“Of course,” he says, nodding as he rises from his seat. “Get some rest.”

I offer him a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. I make my way back to my room. As soon as the door closes behind me, the weight of my feelings crashes down. My heart is racing, my breathing unsteady. I slip beneath the duvet, pulling it tight around myself as if I can ward off the swirling darkness threatening to take over my mind.

Breathe. Just breathe.

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