“Goodnight, Rhys.”
He closed the door behind him and stood in the narrow hallway for a long moment, his hand still resting on the doorknob.This wasn’t how Christmas was supposed to end.This wasn’t how he thought any of it would go.
The girls were gone and soon Cat would leave, too.
*
The sound wokeher first—not rain, exactly, but sleet, a sharp, relentless tapping against the roof, the kind of morning that turned the world to gray glass.Cat lay still, listening, until she caught the low creak of floorboards and the kettle whistling below.
When she came into the kitchen, Rhys was standing at the window, wearing one of his old sweatshirts, thick and oversized, watching the sleet whip sideways across the yard.
“It’s pretty awful at the moment,” he said, glancing at her.“You can’t travel in that.The roads will be skating rinks.”
She smiled—small, quick—and nodded as though it was only common sense.“I suppose we’ll wait it out.”What she wanted him to say wasStay.Or even,don’t go.
But at least there was a reprieve, and for now, that was enough.
He poured coffee into two mugs and handed her one.The warmth seeped through her fingers, a comfort she didn’t want to surrender.They took their places near the hearth, the fire a low, steady crackle.For a while, they spoke of nothing—weather, travel times, the girls’ flight.Ordinary words, but under them ran a quiet hum of everything unspoken.
When the silence stretched too long, Rhys rose and crossed to the sideboard.“I think there’s an old chess set somewhere,” he murmured.
He opened a drawer and held it up—battered box, mismatched pieces.“You still remember how?”
“I might surprise you.”
“Nothing you do surprises me anymore.”
“What does that mean?”she asked.
“You’re beautiful, but it’s your mind that turns me on.”
Cat blushed and laughed and then cleared her throat because she didn’t know what else to do, in part becausethatturned her on.
Rhys set the board between them, and their hands brushed as they arranged the pieces.The sleet drummed harder.“White or black?”he asked.
“Does it matter?”
He looked at her then—really looked—and for a moment she thought he might finally say what neither of them dared.But he only smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way that still undid her.
“Then you go first,” he said softly.
And so she did, moving a single pawn forward, wishing she could slow the game, the day, the leaving.
Time passed, a cocoon of warmth that bound them together even as the fire burned down to a steady glow, logs collapsing softly in the grate.The board between them looked ancient, squares faded to a dull honey and smoke-black.One of the pawns was a button; another, a thimble.Cat nudged her pawn another square.“I’m beginning to realize this is hopeless.You’ve got all the heavy artillery.”
“That’s because I plan ahead,” he said, lips curving, creases fanning from his eyes.“You play by instinct.”
“Instinct’s underrated.”
“Instinct gets you into trouble.”
“Sometimes trouble’s worth it.”
His gaze lifted, locking with hers, heat sparking between them.“You planning to test that theory again.”
She moved her bishop, deliberately careless.“Depends on the weather forecast.”
His laugh was a low sexy rumble.“Forecast says storms till morning.Maybe longer.”
