Inside is a snow globe. But not just any snow globe. It’s this incredibly detailed miniature version of the chalet. Perfect down to the stone chimneys and the wraparound deck. Tiny trees surrounding it. And when I shake it, snow swirls around the little house.
Oh no.
I’m going to cry in front of everyone.
“It’s our bubble,” he murmurs.
“I love it,” I manage, my voice thick. “It’s perfect.”
Mom’s definitely crying. Jenna is filming on her phone. Dad’s grinning like he knows something I don’t.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of presents and wrapping paper as we chip away at the mountain under the tree. It’s like a festive bomb went off. Thomas’s youngest is literally swimming through the debris like it’s a ball pit. Mom keeps trying to fold the paper for reuse because old habits die hard, but there’s just too much. Even she admits defeat around present number seventy-three.
Gregory got everyone something. And I mean everyone. Vin’s kids each have like six gifts. Thomas got new tools for his workshop. Marcel unwrapped noise-canceling headphones and a laptop.
When Dad opens a high-end telescope he actually tears up.
“For the landscaper who’s always looking at the stars,” Gregory says quietly, and oh god, I’m going to cry too.
By the time we hit the bottom of the pile, everyone’s exhausted and happy and there’s literally nowhere to walk without stepping on ribbon. Gregory and I tackle the worst of the wrapping paper carnage while people gather their things and kids are collected from various napping locations.
After a flurry of hugs and goodnights, everyone’s either retreated to guest rooms or headed home. It’s just me and Gregory in the great room, and god, this space. The fireplace where we first slept together, where we fought and made up, where we fell in love. The sectional where we spent a week basically living on top of each other.
I’m wearing his Columbia hoodie. The same one from that first night twelve months ago. It’s worn soft now, and still smells likehim.
Gregory’s building up the fire, and I can’t stop watching the way his forearms flex, and the way his shoulders move underthe henley. After a year, you’d think I’d be used to how stupidly attractive he is.
I’m not.
“Good to see you finally celebrating Christmas,” I say, curling up on the sectional. “Though I think you went a tad overboard with all the presents?”
He glances back, and his smile is this soft thing that still surprises me. “Just a tad. But hey... I have a reason to celebrate Christmas now. Anniversary of when we met.”
“When I showed up desperate and hypothermic on your doorstep, you mean?”
“When you showed up and changed everything,” he corrects, settling beside me.
There he goes again, saying things that make my stomach do the butterfly stroke.
“How’s the research going?” he asks. “You’ve been cryptic about the latest data.”
Oh god, he asked.
He actually wants to hear about mycorrhizal nitrogen transfer rates.
I’m going to marry this man.
I launch into an explanation about the spring field sites, about how the network restoration in the Colorado test plot exceeded our projections by fifty percent, about how the fungi are literally rebuilding soil structure in areas that were basically moonscapes two years ago.
I’m gesturing wildly, probably looking completely unhinged, but Gregory’s watching me like I’m describing the secrets of the universe instead of dirt microbes.
“What?” I ask finally.
“You’re brilliant,” he says simply.
Nope.
Not blushing.
