I set the plate aside and pull her closer. “Used to think I’d stay up here forever. Keep the world out. Keep the noise out.” I press my lips to her temple. “That changed the second you walked through my door with those papers.”
She nods against my chest, but there’s worry in her eyes that she doesn’t quite hide.
“I don’t want to hide anymore,” I say quietly. “Not from you. Not from anything that comes with you. I want you, Imogen. The rest we figure out together.”
Her breath catches. “I don’t know where I belong,” she whispers. “I only know I belong with you.”
I tip her chin up. “Then that’s enough for now.”
She gives me a small, shaky smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
We spend the rest of the day decorating the tree, eating more cookies than any two humans should, and pretending the unsigned divorce papers on the shelf above the stove exist.
I hang the carved walnut ornament I made in the exact center. She steps back, hands on her hips, surveying our crooked, zombie-infested masterpiece.
“Perfect,” she declares.
I pull her against me, arms around her waist, chin on her head. “Yeah. It is.”
Later, when the light turns lavender and the storm finally starts to slow, we sit on the floor in front of the fire with the last of the cookies and two mugs of spiked cocoa. She leans back against my chest, legs tangled with mine.
She’s quiet again, staring into the flames.
I kiss the top of her head. “Talk to me, Vixen.”
“I’m scared,” she says so softly I almost miss it. “I’m scared the second the roads open you’ll decide the mountain is easier without me. Or I’ll decide Denver is safer without you. And we’ll sign those papers and spend the rest of our lives pretending this was just a really good Christmas story.”
I tighten my arms around her. “I’m not signing anything.”
She twists to look at me, eyes glassy. “You say that now. But you built this life for a reason. You like quiet. You like being alone.”
“I like you more.”
She searches my face like she’s looking for the lie and doesn’t find it.
“I’m still scared,” she whispers.
“Me too,” I admit.
Eight down.
Four to go.
Imogen
The last of the daylight is bleeding out of the sky. The fire pops and hisses in the hearth, lighting the little crooked tree we decorated yesterday with paper chains and zombie gingerbread men.
I’m curled on the couch, my sketchpad is balanced on my knees, a stub of charcoal in my fingers. I’ve been working onthis drawing for three days, stealing glances at Flynn when he’s chopping wood, when he’s bent over the stove, and when he’s asleep. The hard lines of his face finally soften. It’s Flynn, the way I see him now. His beard dusted with snow, eyes the color of winter storms, scar cutting through one brow, mouth curved in that half-smirk that makes my stomach flip. The paper is smudged with fingerprints and eraser crumbs, but it’s almost done with his Christmas gift.
I’m shading the hollow beneath his cheekbone when the door bangs open and a gust of arctic air sweeps in, sharp with the bite of fresh snow and pine needles. Flynn stomps in, arms loaded with split pine. Snowflakes melt instantly in his dark hair and beard, dripping onto the mat. His cheeks are raw from the wind, gray eyes bright against the cold.
He kicks the door shut with his boot heel and dumps the wood into the box with a clatter that makes the whole cabin shake. The scent of cold air and cut pine rolls off him in waves.
“Getting dark,” he says, voice low and rough from the wind. “More snow tonight.”
I slap the sketchpad shut and shove it under the blanket before he can see. “Good. I like being buried.”
He raises a brow, mouth twitching. “Are you ready for number nine?” he asks, like he’s reading my mind.
