We weren’ttogether,but we would be.
It would take time, past Chamonix, past these holiday days...it would be work.
Beautiful, glorious work.
“Sweet Em, real strength is showing up when you’re scared.”
She turns. Holds my gaze. Smiles.
I smile back, and offer, “And loving someone is not about protecting them from hurt, but standing beside them through it. I want to stand beside you, baby.”
Her eyes glint with excitement, like discovering a door she didn’t know about.
My chest tightens both with joy but also with pain at the hurt I inflicted upon this woman I love. “I want to choose you even when it’s hard.Especiallywhenit’s hard,” I finish.
Back at the chalet, we leave our boots and coats by the door. The house is warm, with the scent of wood smoke and food.
Voices echo from the kitchen. Laughter.
“You guys all good?” Margot asks as she walks by us in the living room.
Ember smiles gently, replying, “Yeah, Mama, we’re all good.”
She nods knowingly. “Come into the kitchen and get something to eat.”
CHAPTER 27
Ember
The cable car groans as it ascends, the lights of Chamonix glittering like earthbound stars beneath us.
I pull my coat tighter around my body and glance sideways at Ransom.
He hasn’t told me where we’re going—only that I should wear warm layers and trust him.
The first part I had in my closet.
That second part?I’m still figuring it out.
We step out at the top of La Flégère. My breath catches.
I’ve skied here dozens of times, but I’ve never been here at night.
The slopes sleep under a blanket of silence. The pine trees are tall silhouettes, dusted with fresh snow, and above us, the sky is infinite.
The stars feel closer here, like I could reach up and stir them.
“This way.” Ransom waves toward a wide wooden deck just beyond the cable station.
I follow the crunch of his boots. It’s quiet, save for the wind’s hush and the occasional groan of settling snow.
I gasp. “What’s this?”
On the wooden deck, blankets and furs are laid out, surrounded by lanterns, flickering with warm, amber light.
A thermos. Two mugs. The bottle of Montrachet we won, half-wrapped in tissue. Two wine glasses. A cutting board with a small wheel of cheese. A loaf of crusty bread, still warm, with steam rising into the cold. A knife tucked beneath a napkin.
I stare at it in awe.
