The idea of Ben in my grandmother's kitchen, sitting at her worn oak table while I cooked, filled me with anticipation and terror in equal measure. I wasn't only offering dinner. I was inviting him behind my carefully maintained walls, giving him a chance to see me without the polish and performance. Seeme the way those kids had seen me yesterday—vulnerable and honest and trying.
Finally, he pulled back. His cheek rested against mine, and his eyelashes brushed my cheek when he blinked. "I should probably let you head home before we freeze."
"I suppose." I stole another quick kiss. "Though I'm not feeling particularly cold."
Ben's laugh was low and rich. "Still, I'd hate for Santa to catch a chill before tomorrow's rehearsal."
"Don't remind me." I buried my face against his neck, breathing in sawdust and snow. "I still can't believe I agreed to this."
"Hey." He tilted my chin up with gentle fingers. "You were incredible with those kids."
We gathered the thermoses and chairs. The snow had picked up again, fat flakes swirling in the light strands above us, and the wind had shifted, carrying the scent of pine from the surrounding trees. I caught Ben watching me as I brushed snow off my chair. His expression was unguarded—soft and wondering.
"What?"
"Just thinking how different you look from the man who slipped on Holly's doorstep." He stepped closer, boots crunching in the snow. "Less polished. More real."
"Real is terrifying." I reached for his hand.
"Real is better."
Ben walked me back to Grandma's house, and we took our time. Our shoulders brushed with every few steps. We shared quiet observations about the transformed town—how the snow had turned Mrs. Kolchek's tacky inflatable Santa into something almost elegant and how the street lamps created perfect circles of gold on the white ground.
"Seven o'clock tonight?" Ben confirmed.
"I'll start the sauce in my slow-cooker before rehearsal." My fingers played with the zipper of his coat, the metal cold under my fingertips. "Fair warning—I take Italian food very seriously."
"I've noticed you take most things seriously." He leaned in. "It's one of my favorite things about you."
The kiss that followed was deep and confident. Ben's hands found their way inside my coat, palms warm against my sweater, and I pressed him against the porch column, not caring if the neighbors saw. His hat fell off, and snow immediately started catching in his hair. His heart beat fiercely against my chest, matching my own.
A car horn from somewhere down the street eventually forced us apart. Ben's hair stuck up in all directions courtesy of my fingers, and his lips were red from kissing.
He bent to retrieve his hat, and when he straightened, he was grinning. "Dinner. Definitely dinner."
"Deal."
I watched him navigate the snowy sidewalk until he disappeared around the corner, his boots leaving a trail I could follow with my eyes long after he was gone. I hung the borrowed scarf in the entry cabinet, letting my fingers linger on the soft wool that still smelled faintly of cedar and my grandmother's sachets.
Upstairs, I hummed as I searched my grandmother's recipe box for her legendary lasagna instructions. Her flowing script covered the familiar cards, complete with notes about which ingredients could not be substituted "under any circumstances." I ran my finger over her handwriting, feeling the slight indentations where her pen had pressed into the cardstock.
Seven o'clock couldn't come soon enough.
Chapter ten
Ben
The afternoon sun slanted through the theater's high windows, casting long shadows across the stage. I glanced up from the department store window trim I was refinishing to watch Jack clutch his chest and stagger backward dramatically.
"Oh, my darling Susan!" His voice echoed through the empty seats. "Your organizational skills with rubber ducks have captured my heart!"
Charice snorted, breaking character. "How far off script is that?"
"I'm adding layers to Fred's personality. He's a man of passion. Of grand gestures. Of—"
"Of completely butchering your blocking," Mrs. Brubaker called from the front row. "Jack, downstage of Charice during the declaration. And please, stick to the actual lines."
I set my sandpaper down to watch Alex work with Charlie near stage left. The boy clutched his script, but Alex knelt beside him, speaking softly. Whatever he said made Charlie's shoulders relax.
