"Needing everything perfect all the time."
"I don't need perfect." He hands me a mug. "I need reliable."
I take a sip. The eggnog is rich, warm, with a kick that burns pleasantly. "Because people let you down?"
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "People are unpredictable."
"So are snowstorms. And Christmas. And?—"
"You," he finishes.
I grin. "I'm very predictable. Glitter. Cocoa. Bad jokes. Singing offkey."
"And books you hide on your phone."
My smile falters. I had been catching up on my favorite author’s new Daddy Dom romance when he’d sat next to me on the couch earlier and quickly swiped away before he could see it.
Later, when the wind howls again and the lights flicker, I pad into the bedroom to grab my phone charger. I'm halfway across the room when I notice the book on the nightstand, the one with the gold-foil title I forgot to tuck away. The one I’d grabbed from my car and stored in my purse. If the power went out, I’d still be able to read…
My stomach drops. It must have fallen out of my bag at some point and he’d put it on the nightstand. Oh no. Please tell me he didn't?—
"Holly?" His voice from behind me, calm but edged. I freeze.
He steps into the room, eyes flicking from my face to the book in my hand. "Interesting reading material."
"It's research," I blurt, because humor is safer than honesty.
"Research."
"For... writing." My cheeks burn. "Creative writing."
He doesn't call me out on the lie, but the corner of his mouth lifts. "Do your creative projects usually involve dog-eared pages and you blushing dark red?"
I want to disappear. "You weren't supposed to see this."
"I gathered." He steps closer, voice lower now, the kind that fills a space rather than breaks it. "I wasn't looking for it. But I did notice it on the floor and picked it up."
I swallow hard. "So?"
"So," he says gently, "I think we should be honest with each other."
I meet his gaze. "About what?"
"About what you like," he says, then pauses, choosing his words with care. "And what makes you feel safe."
The words are simple, but the intention behind them isn't. It's not teasing, it's acknowledgment. Understanding. A mirror turned quietly toward me.
For a long moment, the only sound is the crackle of fire from the next room. Then I whisper, "You sound like you've read more than just the title."
He smiles faintly. "Maybe I have."
I set the book down carefully on the nightstand. "So, you know what the book is about. The dynamic?"
"I do."
"And you're not..." I gesture vaguely. "Weirded out?"
"No." He moves to the window, looking out at the snow. "I'm intrigued by you. Why would you hide something you enjoy?"
