But instead?
I’m melting against him.
Like butter in a warm skillet.
He carries me over the threshold like a bride—don’t read into that, Marigold—and uses one of those fancy keyless locks, punching in a code so fast I almost don’t catch the numbers.
The soft beep-beep-beep-beep is followed by a quiet chime, and the door clicks shut behind us.
Then he punches in another code on a sleek little panel just inside the foyer.
The security system.
Because of course Ebenezer Rogers is the kind of man who has a home security system so intense it could probably shoot down a drone with a squint and a strongly worded warning.
And still, he carries me.
Me.
Through a foyer that smells like pine, cedarwood, and freshly baked bread—wait, what?
I blink, my gaze darting around the entryway, only for my breath to catch in my throat.
Oh.
This place is—holy shit.
It’s beautiful.
Expensive, but surprisingly inviting.
The foyer opens into a wide, vaulted space, all soft white walls, glowing light fixtures, and warm wood floors polished to a gleam.
But it's not the soaring ceilings or the open-concept living room that hits me hardest.
It’s the wall of windows overlooking the backyard.
I gasp.
“Eb,” I whisper, mouth falling open. “Oh my!”
The entire backyard is a winter wonderland.
Stone pavers peek out beneath a dusting of snow, leading to a sleek, covered in-ground pool.
Tall pines surround the space, forming a natural perimeter that looks like something out of a luxury ski resort catalog. And every single tree?
Wrapped in thousands—no, tens of thousands—of twinkling fairy lights.
But center stage?
Dead center in the room with a thick, velvet skirt wrapped around a potted root ball, framed perfectly in the glow of the moonlight streaming in through the windows and fairy lights everywhere, stands a fourteen-foot-tall blue spruce, my absolute favorite Christmas tree, decked out in glittering gold and red baubles, ribbons, tinsel, and—wait.
My heart skips a beat.
“Are those cookie-shaped ornaments?” I whisper.
That’s when he finally sets me down—gently, like he’s worried I’ll crumble.
