Page 91 of Holiday Friend Zones
So I stay.I skip bids I should be chasing.I turn down jobs that could expand the company faster than I can keep up with.I work late nights on contracts under the dim glow of my desk lamp so I can spend the evenings here, stringing lights with her, making sure she isn’t carrying December alone.
I sacrifice—not because she asks, but because I can’t not.Because the thought of her alone standing in this shop, drowning in grief and garland, is more unbearable than any deadline, any sleepless night.I’d give up every building in this town and the next two over, every deal waiting in my inbox, just to make sure she never feels abandoned again.I’d give up all of it if it meant one more night of watching her laugh beneath Christmas lights.
And maybe she’ll never know.Maybe she’ll never see that every choice I make circles back to her.Looking at her, I don’t see the awkward, geeky girl from the playground—I see the only person who ever felt like home.The one person who makes a season I used to hate feel like it might hold magic after all.
Mr.Gibbs leaves after an hour, arms full of books wrapped in red and gold paper.Willow stands at the register, tucking the last roll of ribbon away.She smiles at the old man as he shuffles into the snow, and something inside me cracks wide open.Because all I want—all I’ve ever wanted—is to be the reason she keeps smiling like that.
I almost kissed her today.I almost crossed the line.And God help me, I don’t know how many more almosts I can survive.I hear her laugh with Mr.Gibbs, light and easy, and it pulls me out of hiding.By the time I walk back up front, I’ve stitched on the grin I know she expects, casual and easy.
My pulse is still wrecked, but I bury it beneath my usual act.
I push off the counter and tilt my head like nothing’s happened.“You know, we could close up early tonight.I’ll cook for you.”
She blinks, caught off guard, though her smile tugs at the corners.“Chili again?You’ve been living off that since high school.”
“Excuse me,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest like she’s wounded me.“That chili is a masterpiece.And I’ve got a tree that needs trimming before Friendsgiving.You could help.We’ll call it payment for all the grief you dish out on a daily basis.”
Her lips twitch, fighting the smile she doesn’t want me to see.“So you’re bribing me with ornaments and beans.”
“Better than eating boxed mac and cheese three nights in a row.”
Her eyes narrow.“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, I do.”I lean in and lower my voice like it’s a secret just between us.“Princess, I’ve known you for twenty years.I can tell a mac-and-cheese week from a mile away.Plus, you leave the boxes in the recycling bin, Princess.Amateur mistake.”
She groans, tossing a ribbon spool at me, but her laugh—God, her laugh—fills the whole shop.Light and warm, like twinkle lights strung across dark windows.
And for a second, it almost feels easy.Like we aren’t standing on the edge of something dangerous.Like I haven’t spent the last hour aching to kiss her.
But then she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and I notice the blush creeping back.I realize, normal isn’t possible anymore.Not for me.Not when she’s here, smiling at me like that.If there’s any magic in this season, it’s her.It always has been.
ChapterSix
ROMAN
The smell of chili hits us the second we step into my house, rich and spicy, the slow heat clinging to our skin.I set it up this morning, knowing I’d be dragging her here one way or another.
Willow shrugs out of her coat and pauses in the entryway, just like she always does—like she’s still trying to convince herself this place is real.Her gaze drifts upward to the vaulted ceilings, then across the wide windows framing the snow-covered yard.She trails her fingers along the banister as we move deeper inside, her steps unhurried, soaking everything in as if she didn’t help bring half of it to life.
We pass the kitchen with its long farmhouse table, the living room where the Christmas tree waits, half-dressed in lights.Then she slows down.
The library.
Her library.
The room I pretended was just “extra space” when we sketched the blueprints at her kitchen table, but we both knew better.It’s tucked behind glass-paned double doors, with warm light spilling out as if it had been waiting just for her.Already, her fingerprints mark the shelves—first editions lined up beside my sci-fi paperbacks, signed romance novels she swore I couldn’t judge until I read them, thrillers she pushed into my hands with the warning,“Don’t you dare spoil the ending.”
She steps inside, her hand brushing the spines like greeting old friends, her smile soft and fleeting.And I let her linger, because this room was always hers—always meant to be hers.One of the four bedrooms upstairs is hers, too.Not officially.Not that she’s ever slept in it.But it’s there, waiting—just in case it gets late, just in case she ever needs somewhere else to land.
She trails her fingers along the spines of a row of books as we pass, her mouth curling like she wants to smile but doesn’t quite trust herself.Her thumb brushes over the worn cover.Dune.She shoots me a look over her shoulder, half amusement, half disbelief.
“Still trying to make me a sci-fi convert?”
“What?You love it,” I say automatically, because she does—even if she won’t admit it.
Her lips curve, soft, almost wistful.“You only read Persuasion because I shoved it into your hands.Don’t think I didn’t notice you dog-earing every other page.”
The truth is, she’s right.I’d read anything if she told me to.And I think she knows it.
