Looking up at the half-decorated tree, with Rayne warm in my arms, I realize something that should terrify me but doesn’t: For the first time in years, I actually want Christmas for myself.
And I know with absolute clarity that when the weekend ends, I’m not letting her go.
6
RAYNE
The first thing I notice when I wake is warmth—the solid heat of Ronan’s chest against my back, his arm draped possessively across my waist. For a moment, I lie perfectly still, savoring the feeling. His breath stirs my hair, slow and steady. He’s still asleep.
I carefully turn to face him, studying the planes of his face softened by sleep. Without his usual intensity, he looks younger. Vulnerable, even. My heart squeezes painfully.
Tomorrow morning, this ends.
Tomorrow, I walk away with enough money to cover Mom’s treatments. I’ll go back to my apartment, my job search, my normal life. And Ronan will ... what? Find someone else? The thought makes me feel physically ill.
I slip out of bed, careful not to wake him, and pad to the bathroom. In the mirror, my reflection tells the story of last night—hair tousled, lips slightly swollen, a small mark blooming at the junction of my neck and shoulder where Ronan’s mouth had been particularly insistent.
“Running away?” His voice, rough with sleep, startles me.
I turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, wearing only low-hanging pajama bottoms. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his bare chest.
“Just ... freshening up.”
He crosses to me, trapping me against the counter, his hands settling on my hips. “We have plans today.”
“Plans?”
“There’s a Christmas gala tonight. I want you there.”
I blink at him. “A gala? Like, formal dress, champagne, fancy people?”
“Exactly like that.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “I want to show you off.”
Something flutters in my chest. “You don’t strike me as the type who enjoys galas.”
“I’m not.” His eyes darken. “But I enjoy the idea of you in a dress that makes other men envious of what’s mine.”
The possessive claim sends heat spiraling through me. I should protest—I’m not his, not really. This is temporary. But the words stick in my throat.
“I don’t have anything to wear to something like that.”
He smiles the smile that makes my breath hitch. “That’s part of today’s plan. We’re going shopping.”
“Shopping? For a gala dress?” This feels surreal. “Ronan, I can’t?—”
“You can and you will.” He kisses me, soft but firm. “My treat.”
“But—”
“Ryan’s coming too.” At the mention of his son, Ronan’s expression softens.
I melt a little. That sweet boy. “Okay, we’ll go.”
“Good.” Ronan steps back. “Shower. Then breakfast. Then we shop.”
His tone brooks no argument, and honestly, I don’t want to argue. One more day of this fantasy before reality crashes back. I’ll take it.
Two hours later, we’re walking through a high-end shopping district I’ve only seen in magazines. Christmas decorations transform the storefronts into winter wonderlands—garlands swag between lampposts wrapped in twinkling lights, giant ornaments hang from tree branches, and holiday music filters out from every shop.
