Page 55 of Snowbound
“You always did speak your mind, didn’t you?”
“Aye.” And it got me into damn trouble on more than one occasion.
She stands and walks to the kitchen.
All right, maybe I was too harsh, too blunt. But when she busies herself with making hot cocoa, I pull out my phone.
One message:
It’s done.
I read it twice, then swipe away the screen.
Outside, the snowfall is softening, slushier now. The forecast says tomorrow it’ll melt. First time above freezing in weeks.
That’s time slipping through my fingers. That’s the world preparing to thaw. And when it does…
I’ve taken a bit of a break, gone silent and refused all jobs for a short time. But soon, I have to go back to who I am. What I do.
And so does she.
When she comes back, steam curls from two mismatched mugs in her hands. She hands me one with half-melted marshmallows floating on top.
“I was just thinking,” she says, quiet now, curling back beside me as if nothing happened. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
I glance at the tree. The lights blink red and green, and the scent of cocoa and pine hangs in the air.
“It is, isn’t it?” I ask, as if I haven’t been counting down the hours. As if I’m not totally prepared for Christmas.
She sips, then says it with that half smile—that girl still buried under all the years. “Think Santa will come tonight?”
She means it as a joke, but a part of her really hopes, as though she still believes in miracles. Or maybe she just wants to.
I set the mug down and cup her jaw.
“Depends. Were you a good girl or a naughty one?”
Emma bites her lip. “Dear Santa,” she whispers. “I can explain everything… and even if I can’t, I was already spanked for it, so I’m good now.”
I tweak her hair. “For now.”
She goes still. That look in her eyes—hope and grief, trust and confusion—god, it kills me.
But for now, I kiss her and let the night lie.
“Aye, lass, it’s Christmas Eve, and Santa always comes for good girls, doesn’t he?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Emma
I didn’t knowOwen snored in his sleep. He’s shirtless and sprawled out, with one arm slung across the couch like he owns the whole world. The firelight flickers over his bare chest, the faint scar near his ribs, and the small tat just under his arm on his torso. His lashes are dark against his cheeks.
I doubt he sleeps like this often. He’s always half-alert, like he’s waiting to fight off a nightmare. But now? Now he’s peaceful.
Now he’smine.
I watch him for far too long, the mug cold in my hands, my feet curled under me. The faint scent of cinnamon and sugar lingers in the air.
