But how much time do we have?his bear insisted.
There was no answer to that question. So instead, he tried to focus on paperwork, but the words blurred before his eyes. Each minute that passed felt like an hour, each hour an eternity as the witching hour approached.
Two hours had passed since Sorcha had run from him. Two hours of torment, of second-guessing, of wondering if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.
His bear had finally fallen silent, retreating into a corner of his mind to nurse its wounded heart. Christopher envied its ability to withdraw. He had no such escape from the crushing weight of regret.
The fire in the office hearth had burned down to embers. He should add another log, but he couldn’t summon the energy to move. The chill settling into the room matched the ice forming around his heart.
Then he felt it—a shift in the air, a presence that called to him on a level so primal it made his breath catch. His head snapped up, every sense suddenly alert and focused.
Sorcha.
She was coming toward him. His bear surged forward, suddenly wide awake and hopeful. Christopher rose from his chair, his heart hammering against his ribs as he moved to the door, drawn by an invisible thread that connected them.
He opened the door just as she reached the bottom step of the office porch. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her eyes bright with determination. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the space between them charged with unspoken words.
Then Sorcha was moving, rushing forward, and Christopher opened his arms just in time to catch her as she threw herself against his chest.
“I choose you,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. “I choose us.”
Christopher’s arms tightened around her, his body trembling with relief so profound it threatened to buckle his knees. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent, reassuring himself that this was real, that she was here.
“Are you sure?” he asked, needing to hear it again, to know this wasn’t just his desperate imagination.
Sorcha pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” she said. “I love you, Christopher Stiller. Bear and all.”
The words washed over him, soothing the raw edges of his fear. His bear roared with joy, and Christopher couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.
“I love you too,” he whispered, framing her face with his hands. “More than I ever thought possible.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, pouring everything he felt into the kiss—his relief, his joy, his love, his promise. Sorcha responded with equal fervor, her fingers threading through his hair, holding him close as if afraid he might vanish.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Christopher pressed his forehead to hers. “What changed your mind?” he asked softly.
“My mother, strangely enough,” Sorcha replied with a small laugh. “She helped me see that I was letting fear make my decisions. And when I asked myself what I truly wanted, the answer was simple.” She brushed her lips against his again. “It’s you. It’s always been you, even before we met. I just didn’t know it yet.”
He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet, burying his face in her hair.
“Sorcha,” he breathed, her name a prayer on his lips. “Are you sure?”
She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, her hands framing his face. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” she said. “I was so afraid of making the wrong choice that I almost missed the right one.”
Christopher touched his forehead to hers, breathing her in. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“Never,” Sorcha promised. “I just needed to silence all the voices in my head telling me what I should want. When Idid that, there was only one voice left—my heart. And it was screaming your name.”
He kissed her then, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips against hers. Sorcha responded with equal fervor, her mouth opening beneath his, her body melting against him as if she couldn’t get close enough.
Christopher lifted her onto the desk, papers scattering unheeded to the floor as he stepped between her thighs. Sorcha’s hands slid under his shirt, her touch scorching against his skin.
“Here?” he asked against her lips, even as his hands found the hem of her sweater.
“Here,” she confirmed, raising her arms to help him pull the garment over her head. “Now.”
The sight of her in the soft glow of the desk lamp—skin flushed, eyes dark with desire, wearing only her bra and jeans—nearly undid him. Christopher’s hands shook as he reached for the clasp of her bra, suddenly overcome with the knowledge that this was different. This wasn’t just passion or physical need. This was a beginning.
Sorcha seemed to sense his reverence, her own movements slowing as she unbuttoned his shirt. When her palm pressed against his bare chest, directly over his heart, Christopher felt something shift between them—a deepening, a recognition.
