Page 9 of The Holiday Inheritance

“Oh, Briggs.” I sit up and reach over to touch his arm. “I’m so sorry.” I’ve never wanted kids, but that doesn’t mean I can empathize with someone who has lost one. I can’t imagine the pain of losing something you wanted so, so much.

“It was hard at first,” he admits, giving me a sad smile. “But, I have to admit, I never saw myself as Dad. I don’t think I was born with that fatherly gene. Don’t get me wrong, I would’ve loved that kid and given them anything they wanted in life. But it wasn’t something I dreamed of, ya know?”

I nod, giving him a light squeeze.

“Anyway, without the baby, we drifted apart…quickly. She came to me one evening and told me she wanted to part ways. I wasn’t against it, so we parted amicably. Haven’t gotten that close since.” He finishes his wine and grabs the bottle. “Not for lack of trying, though,” he says with a laugh. “I may not want kids, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want a family. A wife and a dog—or seven—has been the dream.”

“Or seven?” I laugh, but it sounds exactly like what I’ve wanted.

“I’m a sucker for those rescues.” He shrugs. “What about you? You want a husband and kids?”

“A husband, sure. Kids? Not really.” I drink my own wine, trying to give myself some liquid courage. I’ve only known this man for twelve hours, but I want him to know we want the same things, that maybe we could keep this thing going and see where we end up. Which, yes, sounds insane. But I tend to be the person who falls first and falls the fastest. It’s a personality trait I’ve worked hard on but clearly still haven’t overcome. “Same as you; I don’t really feel like I was born with that mothering gene.”

He moves on the couch, spinning around and lying down so that his head rests on my lap. His wine sloshes a bit in his glass, but he manages to set it down on the floor without spilling a drop. Not being able to stop myself, I run my hands through his slightly damp hair. His eyes close for a second before he looks back up at me.

“I feel I should apologize,” he says, grinning. “For scaring you, for pushing myself on you afterwards.”

My cheeks flame, and I take another sip for bravery. “Don’t be,” I tell him. “Clearly, I wanted it, too.”

He grabs my arm, kisses the inside of my wrist, and then drapes it over his chest. “I would like to be honest with you for a minute, if that’s okay.”

“Always,” I answer, setting my wine down on the table behind me so that I can give him my full attention.

“Being forty-five, I’ve kind of given up on the wholefinding someonething. It feels like I’m too old now.” My stomach drops, and I can’t help but feel a little disappointment. “But, I dunno, you walked through those doors at baggage claim, and I?—”

“Fell in love with me immediately, right?” I tease. “It’s to be expected.”

The joke worked, diffusing some of the tension that had built up between us. “Exactly,” he says, grinning up at me. “Indeed, I did know I was done for when I saw you. You were red and flustered, and I botched it, barely being able to get a word out.”

My insides are swirling with unbridledglee. I’m not kidding, I feel like I’m floating on cloud-fucking-nine right now. Biting the inside of my lip to keep myself from grinning like a fool, I meet his eyes and nod.

“I thought you were pretty good-looking, too,” I admit.

“Even though I’m old enough to be your dad?”

I guffaw. “My dad?” I practically squeal. “How young do you think I am? You’d have had to have me at like seventeen! Which, I guess, now that I’m saying it out loud, is totally plausible, but you are not too old for me.” I grab my wine again and drink the rest of it, downing half a glass even though it brutally burns the entire way down.

Word vomit.

I cringe at how desperate or crazy I may have just seemed. But when I look back down at him, he’s smiling, his fingers tracing soft lines up and down my arm. His eyes look heavy, and I realize he’s been up with me all night with hardly any sleep.

The sun is starting to come up, the snow making it seem brighter than it really is. When I pull myself away from his eyes to look out the back window, I see the snow is still coming down. And it even looks like it’s accumulated up past the window sill.Maybe we’ll be snowed in. Maybe we’ll have a few days together to figure out if we want to keep this going—if this can work. In our own little bubble of Christmas and snow.

“Still snowing,” I say softly before looking back down at him. His eyes are closed, the ghost of a smile on his lips and his hands still holding on to my arm. Taking a deep breath, I try to settle the butterflies that haven’t stopped for hours now. I let my head drop back to the soft cushions of the couch and close my eyes.

Chapter Seven

Florence

I jolt awake,my body violently jumping.

“What? Huh?” Briggs falls off the couch, sending his glass of wine spilling and rolling—thankfully—onto the floor instead of the rug. “Bollocks!”

I laugh while he rushes to pick up the glass, his hair a mess and eyes still heavy with sleep.

“It’s okay, Briggs,” I tell him, stretching as I move to get off the couch. “It’s just a floor. I’ll get a rag.”

“It’s okay. I’ll get it,” he says, smiling and leaning over to kiss me softly on the lips. Then my nose. And then my forehead.

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