I slide my fingers around the mug, letting the warmth of the liquid gold inside seep through my fingers before braving another look at Reece. Last night, I told him I wanted him to chase me. Is this what that feels like?
“Merry Christmas,” I say softly.
His easy smile, mixed with a bit of mischief, and the desire in his eyes is refreshing. Taking this step doesn’t mean our entire dynamic has to change. We can still beus.
“Merry Christmas, Blue. Drink up and get dressed. Busy day ahead.”
And with that, he places a quick kiss on my cheek before disappearing into the bathroom.
***
When the four of us finally arrive at the Flynn house, the smell of bacon, homemade biscuits, and something buttery and sweet reaches us before we step onto the porch. The laughter spilling through the open doors is pure Havenwood: joyful, loud, and full of love.
Noah and Jett manage to bypass the welcome committee, but Mrs. Flynn wraps Reece in a hug the minute we cross the threshold. She pulls me into a similar embrace next.
“Merry Christmas, you two. It’s nice to see the two of you not sneaking out of the feed room for once.”
“That was one time!” Reece laughs, clearly not expecting her blunt greeting.
The tips of his ears turn pink, and I’m sure my cheeks match.
“Yes, yes.” She shoos us into the kitchen. “We all know you’ve been carrying a torch for the girl. Oh, don’t look so shocked. You work for us, Reece. It’s my job to notice these things.”
I don’t dare look at him as Mrs. Flynn urges us closer to the noise and food.
Jett is already at the table, laughing with her business partner, Kelsey, and stealing sips of Noah’s coffee when he isn’t looking. Every seat on the back porch picnic table is filled, every plate overflowing with breakfast foods and Christmas sweets.
For just a little while, I forget about everything else. The career decisions I need to make, the precious preschoolers I had to leave behind, the confusion in my heart about all of it. It all fades away as the small-town chaos, the teasing, and the sound of chairs scraping against the floor fill that homesickness in me.
Across the table, Reece catches my gaze. He doesn’t say anything, but the look is enough. Warm. Certain. A promise hidden like the mistletoe that mysteriously keeps appearing in every room.
After brunch, everyone scatters between the living room and kitchen. Wrapping paper and laughter mix with the smell of pine from the tree in the corner. I help Mrs. Flynn gather empty plates while Reece disappears for a moment—something he’s apparently been plotting, judging by the smug look he wears when he returns.
Before I can ask, he catches my wrist and gently tugs me toward the hallway.
“Reece—what are you doing?”
“Come here for a sec,” he murmurs, stopping beneath the arched doorway that connects the kitchen and front room. Above us, tied with a red ribbon, hangs a small sprig of mistletoe.
I tilt my head, a smile tugging at my lips. “This is a bad idea.”
He steps closer, the faint scent of cedar and peppermint wrapping around me like warmth itself. “You know,” he says with that familiar, teasing glint in his eyes, “I’ve heard that once or twice.”
“Still not seeing how this could ever be agoodidea.”
His answering grin is slow and devastating. “Didn’t think you would.”
The world narrows to the sound of my heartbeat and the soft hum of Christmas music from the other room. And then hekisses me—gentle at first, like a question, before deepening into something that feels a lot like an answer.
When we finally break apart, his forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling in the quiet.
“Merry Christmas, Blue,” he whispers.
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “Merry Christmas, Reece.”
“I’ve fallen a hell of a lot harder than I expected to these last few days,” he says, voice low and rough, every word like it costs him something to admit. “Maybe I shouldn’t want you. But damn it, Kenna…you’ve got my heart so tangled up at this point I don’t want to go back to the way things were. I want you. No secrets. No hiding. I want you under the mistletoe in the town square, where anyone in Havenwood could see us. I want to walk into The Write Brew with your hand in mine, order you that sugary peppermint gingerbread thing you call coffee, and watch your face when you drink it. Hell, I want to take Butterbean on a ride around town with you wrapped around my back.”
His thumb strokes over my knuckles, slow and certain. “I want all of that,” he murmurs, the words sinking into the quiet like a promise he has no intention of breaking.
