“—take a break,” I finish lamely.
Her mouth curves. “A break.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “We’ve been at this a while.”
She nods, picking up the ornament box, but she’s still watching me. Like she’s waiting for me to lead the way again.
I go to the kitchen, mostly to breathe. I grab two glasses, the bottle of wine my mom insisted I buy “for hosting,” and try very hard not to picture Dahlia leaning against the counter, hair loose, eyes soft.
Except when I turn around, that’s exactly what I see.
She slid off her coat. She tucked her hair behind her ears. She looks warm and flushed and entirely too comfortable in my kitchen.
She accepts the glass when I hand it to her. Our fingers touch and linger for a beat too long. My pulse responds like it’s been waiting for that contact all damn month.
We don’t talk for a moment. Just sip. Just exist in the same charged air.
The lights blink.
Once.
Twice.
The storm thuds against the roof like a warning.
“Great,” I mutter. “Hope we don’t lose power.”
She tilts her head. “Would that be a problem?”
“I mean…”
I could light the fireplace. I could grab blankets. I could sit beside her on this worn-in couch and listen to her laugh while snow piles up outside?—
Yeah. It would be a problem.
Before I can answer, her stomach growls loudly enough to make her wince.
I laugh. “You hungry?”
“I wasn’t before, but now all I can think about is the cinnamon rolls I bought Molly yesterday.”
“What happened to them?”
“She ate one. Then fell asleep. Then hid the rest so she wouldn’t be tempted.”
“That sounds like Molly.”
She smiles, soft. “She’s exhausted. I’m trying not to freak out.”
Everything inside me shifts at the worry in her voice.
“She’s okay,” I say quietly. “Bradley’s on it. And she’s got you.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “Yeah.”
“And you’ve got me.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
