Page 20 of It's the Worst Time of the Year

His eyes met mine. “Me too.”

We stood a foot apart, and my pulse quickened. There was no need for grand speeches. We had talked enough. I lifted my hand and placed it on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart under the knit fabric. He inhaled sharply at my touch, and I saw the question in his eyes: Was I sure?

I answered by rising onto my toes and pressing my lips to his. The kiss began softly, a gentle brush of warmth, before deepening into something more fervent. He tasted of the mulled wine we’d shared earlier, sweet and spiced. As we kissed, he slid one hand into my hair, cradling the back of my head as though I were precious, as though he couldn’t bear to let me go again.

We found our way to the old velvet sofa, where a quilt lay folded at one end. He helped me out of my robe, his fingers deliberate and reverent as they slipped beneath the collar, easing it over my shoulders. He let his eyes travel over me, appreciation and wonder making them glow in the low light.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice roughened by desire.

My cheeks warmed under his praise. I reached for him in turn, helping him out of his sweater and pressing my hands over the toned planes of his chest, the dips and contours that hinted at his strength. He shivered slightly, though the room was warm, as if my touch stirred something deep within him. We kissed again, more urgently this time. His mouth traced a path along my jaw, the curve of my neck, igniting sparks under my skin. I arched toward him, tangling my fingers in his hair, breathing his name into the hush of the room.

We took our time. He lowered me back against the cushions, his body following mine. Our breathing grew softer and slower, punctuated only by quiet gasps and sighs. I felt no hurry, no rush—only a sweet, luxurious tension building between us.

His hands explored my skin, fingertips gliding over my shoulders, along my arms, down the curve of my waist and over my hips. Each touch was deliberate, as if committing me to memory. I responded in kind, learning his body anew. The smooth expanse of his back, the subtle swell of muscle across his shoulders, the way his breath caught when I pressed my lips to the hollow of his throat.

When we finally became one, it was gentle but sure, a joining that felt both exhilarating and familiar. I gasped softly at the exquisite sensation of his presence inside and around me, his body fitting against mine in ways I’d missed more than I dared admit. He whispered my name, voice low and reverent, and I answered with a trembling sigh of “Yes,” arching closer, allowing pleasure and emotion to blend until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

The sofa’s old springs gave a quiet creak as we moved together in a slow, sensuous rhythm. The glow from theChristmas tree reflected in his eyes, turning them into fragments of colorful light. I held his gaze, letting him see everything I felt: the regrets, the longing, the love that had never truly vanished. He brushed a lock of hair from my face and pressed a kiss to my palm. Our bodies communicated all that words had failed to express. Every gentle thrust seemed to pull us tighter into this intimate world that existed only for us.

Outside, the world remained muffled by snow. Inside, I could hear our breathing grow heavier, and the distant sound of a log shifting in the fire. I felt the tension coil low in my belly, warmth spreading through my limbs, and I clung to him as waves of sensation built with delicious inevitability. His voice grew huskier, coaxing me to let go, to trust this moment.

When release came, I buried my face in his shoulder, feeling his heart race against my cheek. He held me close, murmuring my name over and over, as if it were the most beautiful prayer he knew. I trembled in his arms, pulling him deeper inside me until he couldn’t hold back anymore. His release was powerful, and I wrapped my legs around his back, holding him until he was completely spent.

In the afterglow, we remained tangled together, skin flushed and hearts still pounding. The quilt had slipped to the floor, and he retrieved it, draping it over us. I snuggled against him, breath gradually slowing. His fingers traced idle patterns along my spine, sending aftershocks of warmth through me.

My eyelids grew heavy, lulled by his warmth and the reassuring steadiness of his breathing and the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth. Jacob adjusted the quilt around us, and before long, I surrendered to sleep.

Chapter Eight

JACOB

Christmas morning broke over Wintervale in a soft hush, the storm’s howling winds replaced by a serene, crystalline stillness. I woke alone in my room back at the resort—no longer in the drafty halls of Barrington Manor, no longer with Bailey curled against my side as she’d been just hours before. The rescue team had arrived at the mansion at dawn, plowing through the roads that had finally yielded to their machines. Amid the frantic rush and excitement, we’d been bundled into warm vans and whisked back to civilization before I’d had a chance to steal a quiet word with Bailey.

Back at the hotel, my sense of unreality persisted. All around me, families rejoiced in the sudden good weather, children squealing over Christmas presents, and the staff hustled to accommodate guests who’d been stranded by the storm. The hotel lobby was awash in festive decorations—poinsettias and garlands, a towering Christmas tree that reached all the way to the ceiling—but I moved through it all with a sort of restless tension in my chest. Where was Bailey?

I tried calling Theodore as well to check in, but no luck there either. My calls rolled straight to voicemail and my texts went unanswered. It was as if the tight camaraderie we’d all forged during the storm had vanished into thin, frosty air now that we were back in the realm of phone signals and busy schedules.

When I finally spotted Bailey around midday, my heart leapt, but the encounter left me uneasy. I caught her in the resort’s lounge, on her laptop, and though our eyes met briefly, she lowered hers back to her screen almost immediately, never lifting her fingers from the keyboard. It was obvious she was avoiding me, and my stomach knotted. Had I misread our night together? Did she regret it?

I retreated to my room, wrestling with doubts. But I knew I couldn’t leave it at that. Christmas Day was marching on, and the hotel was hosting the grand Christmas Gala that evening which the firm was expecting me to attend.

As late afternoon dimmed into evening, I dressed in a charcoal suit, knotting my tie with determined fingers. Downstairs, the ballroom had been transformed into a wonderland of holiday decor and candlelit tables. A small band tuned up in the corner, and guests in their holiday finest drifted past me with soft laughter and the clink of glasses.

No sign of Bailey in the main hall. After several minutes of searching, I slipped out onto a side balcony overlooking the village. The air was cold but clear, and the sky was a deepening hue of blue and purple as dusk fell. From here, I could see the rooftops dusted with snow, and the distant steeple of the village church. And there, leaning against the iron railing, her silhouette framed by the gentle glow of lanterns, was Bailey.

My heart twisted. She wore a simple yet elegant dress in a deep, rich green that resembled the pine forests blanketed insnow outside town. Her chestnut hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves. She looked reflective, lost in thought as she gazed out at the town of Wintervale.

I stepped onto the balcony. The sound of my shoes on the stone made her turn. A flicker of something passed over her face, and my heart did a flip-flop in my chest.

“Hey,” I said quietly, taking a step closer. The chill in the air contrasted with the heat of my nerves.

“Hey,” she answered hesitatingly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes were guarded, and I couldn’t read what was in them.

I pressed my palms to the railing beside her, leaving a respectful distance between us. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk this morning,” I said, voice low. “Everything happened so fast.”

She nodded, gaze drifting to the village lights. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “We got caught up in the moment.”

It wasn’t okay, though—not to me. I had to make her understand. “Bailey, about what happened between us at the manor…” I paused, willing myself to find the right words. “I meant it…Allof it. I love you. I want another chance. Whatever fears or differences stood between us before, I’m willing to face them, work out whatever needs to be.”

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