“It’s just a game!” she laughed.
“Absolutely not.” I plucked the card from her like it was a live grenade. “You get a puppy instead.”
She grabbed a balled-up napkin and threw it at my face. I tossed it back at her with a chuckle. She squealed and dodged, her hair falling in her eyes, cheeks flushed.
She was so goddamn beautiful.
The storm got louder outside. The fire dimmed. Shadows moved across her face in soft patterns. We were nearing the end of the board, but neither of us seemed to want to get there.
She reached the end first.
I sighed. “Fine. You win.”
“You sound so bitter,” she teased.
“I am.”
Smiling, she started packing the game away. Something small and warm curled in my stomach.
Before I could stop myself, my hand came down on the board—light, not blocking, just… asking her to pause.
Her eyes come up to mine slowly.
“This was…” The words got stuck. I forced them past my guarded throat. “Nice.”
Her eyes softened in a way that knocked the air out of me. “Yeah. It was.”
The moment hung there, quiet and dangerous; a slow, pulling gravity I couldn’t back away from. The more time I spent with her, the more I wantedher.Not just sex, but everything. She made my life brighter just by being in it.
We sat there in the soft hum of snow and crackling wood, staring at each other like the space between us was something we both suddenly became aware of.
I cleared my throat and stood. “I’ll lock up. Make sure everything’s secure.”
I said it casually, like nothing had changed.
But my voice was rough, too low, too thick.
And I was avoiding looking at her.
Which meant everything had.
Chapter Nine
Gia
On Christmas Eve, the snow outside had settled into that soft, steady drift that made the whole world feel muted, like the cabin existed in its own quiet snow globe. The tree lights glowed softly in the corner, and the warm smell of cinnamon and ginger filled the kitchen.
I’d woken up with a strange combination of emotions. I was sad that I wouldn’t be with my family for the first time ever, but I was also excited to be sharing my favorite holiday with Enzo.
I stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, staring at the mess we’d made.
“Well,” I observed, eyeing the bowl in front of me. “I think we’re missing something.”
Enzo looked up from the baking sheet he was prepping. “Missing what?”
“I don’t know. Directions? A trained pastry chef? Divine intervention?”
A ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth—rare, soft, the kind I’d started to crave without meaning to. “You wanted to make a gingerbread house.”
