Page 7 of Silent Night Temptation

I step closer to the glass doors, trying to keep my thoughts in check. My eyes flick toward the street, searching for any signof a black SUV. The minutes seem to crawl by, each one slower than the last. My hands are shoved deep in my pockets, but it does little to ward off the chill that’s creeping into my bones. My breath slips out in quick, shallow bursts, clouding the glass in front of me. I blink, startled—when did I stop breathing? My fingers clutch into a fist so hard they ache, and I loosen my grip only to realize I’ve been holding it all along, as if the slightest release might shatter everything.

I’m waiting and tense, on the edge of something I can’t quite define.

Then, through the swirling snow, I see it: a sleek, black Jeep, a Grand Cherokee, gliding up to the curb. My pulse quickens as the vehicle comes to a stop, the engine still humming quietly under the hood. The driver’s side door swings open, and out steps a tall figure, bundled in a heavy coat with a hood pulled low over his face. The placard in his hand catches the wind, the paper flapping slightly, and I catch a glimpse of my name, apparently scribbled hastily but unmistakable.

My feet move before my brain can fully process what’s happening. I push through the double doors, the sudden blast of cold air hitting me like a slap to the face. The wind whips my hair into my eyes as I hurry toward him, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Hi! Mr. Davenport?!” I call out, my voice barely carrying over the roar of the wind.

He turns, his face still mostly hidden by the hood of his coat. “Nyree?” he says, his voice low and steady. It’s the voice that commands attention with no need to raise it.

I nod quickly, clutching my bag tighter as I approach. He moves efficiently, not wasting a second as he tosses my luggage into the back of the Jeep. His movements are smooth, practiced, like this is something he does often and is used to taking charge in situations like this.

“Get in,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument as he swiftly yanks open the passenger door.

I am sliding into the seat. The warmth of the car is immediate, wrapping around me like a blanket. I exhale slowly, feeling some of the tension in my shoulders ease, though not entirely. Mr. Davenport climbs in on the driver’s side, pulling his hood down a little. I can’t help but glance over at him, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the strong jawline, and the piercing eyes that seem to take in everything at once. He’s exactly as Coco described, only more imposing in person. There’s a certain gravitas about him, an air of authority that makes me feel small and uncertain in comparison.

He pulls the Jeep away from the curb with the same practiced ease, navigating through the thickening snow with a steady hand. For a while, the only sound is the soft hum of the engine and the rhythmic scrape of the windshield wipers as they try to keep up with the storm. My hands fidget in my lap. The silence is crushing and quite uncomfortable.

“So, uh, thank you for picking me up,” I say finally. My voice sounding too loud in the enclosed space.

He glances over at me briefly, a slight look at something. Amusement maybe? It crosses his features before his attention returns to the road. “Of course,” he says simply. “Wouldn’t want to leave you stranded in this.”

I manage a tight smile, though I doubt he notices. The tension I feel hasn’t fully dissipated, and the snow outside is falling harder now, the world beyond the windows turning into a blur of white. My fingers tap nervously against the armrest, my mind racing with thoughts I can’t quite articulate.

“Coco’s flight got delayed because of the weather,” I offer, trying to fill the silence with something, anything.

He nods, his eyes fixed on the road. “Yeah, she called.”

Another pause. I bite my lip, searching for something else to say, but nothing comes to mind. I’m painfully aware of how awkward this all is, how out of place I feel, sitting here beside a man I’ve only heard about in stories, in the middle of a snowstorm that shows no sign of letting up. My neck itches again, and I resist the urge to reach up and scratch at it.

The landscape outside is almost completely obscured now, the snow piling up faster than the plows can keep up with. The Jeep moves steadily through it all, but my heart is still in my throat, each turn of the wheel making me a little more anxious.

“It’s great that Coco didn’t get on her flight before this hit,” Mr. Davenport says suddenly, breaking the silence. “Best if she stays put till this storm clears. This is no weather for flying”

“Yeah,” I agree quickly, grateful for the distraction. “Flying in this storm would’ve been… bad.”

He lets out a short laugh, and I find myself relaxing just a little. There’s something oddly comforting about his presence, even though I don’t know him well. It’s like he has everything under control, like no matter how bad the storm gets, he’ll handle it. I wish I had that kind of confidence.

The drive continues in relative silence after that, though it feels less stifling than before. I stare out the window, watching the snow swirl in chaotic patterns, my mind drifting between thoughts of Coco, the holidays, and the strange feeling of being in this man’s company. It’s not until we’re pulling into the long driveway of what I assume is their vacation house that I realize just how tense I’ve been this whole time.

The house is massive, far bigger than I expected. It has tall windows and a sloping roof that’s already covered in a thick layer of snow. The lights are on inside, casting a warm, inviting glow through the storm. I can feel the anxiety bubbling up again as we park, but I push it down, taking a deep breath as Mr. Davenport turns off the engine.

“Here we are,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt.

I nod, following his lead as I step out into the cold once more. The wind is even harsher out here, almost freezing me in place as Mr. Davenport hurriedly grabs my bags from the back of the car. He moves with purpose, leading the way up to the front door with long, confident strides. I struggle to keep up, my feet slipping slightly on the icy path, but I stay upright.

As soon as we’re inside, the warmth of the house hits me like a wave, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The interior is just as impressive as the exterior, with high ceilings, rich wood floors, and a massive stone fireplace that crackles invitingly in the living room. It feels both luxurious and cozy, like a place designed for comfort, but with a touch of opulence that’s impossible to ignore.

“Make yourself at home,” Mr. Davenport says, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a nearby rack.

I follow suit, though my movements are slower, more tentative. My fingers feel clumsy as I fumble with the zipper of my jacket, my mind still reeling from the whirlwind of the last few hours. When I finally free myself from the layers of winter clothing, I stand there awkwardly, unsure of what to do next.

“Thank you for picking me up,” I say again, my voice quieter this time, almost swallowed by the comforting crackle of the fire as I glance back at him.

But the words catch in my throat.

The moment I truly see him, without his heavy coat and the hood that had been casting shadows over his face, it’s as though the room itself shifts. My breath stumbles in my chest.

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