Liberty grabs a couple of thick blankets and spreads them on the floor, creating a cozy little nest.
“Music,” she calls into the air, “Classic Christmas playlist.”
Let it Snow, the Dean Martin favorite, drifts through the room.
It’s appropriate given that above the dense mountain we’re sequestered in is a raging snowstorm that’s keeping the rest of the world far away.
I set the tray down and stretch out beside her. For a moment, neither of us reaches for the food.
We just take each other in.
“Let’s start with the cheese,” she says finally.
I pick up the small knife and carve off a bit of brie. “Open.”
She parts her lips, and I place it on her tongue. Her eyes close slowly, like she’s savoring more than just the flavor.
“Oh wow,” she murmurs. “That’s stupid good.”
“Mhm.” My voice is low even to my own ears. Watching her enjoy food might be my new favorite holiday tradition.
She selects a piece of cranberry cheddar and holds it toward my mouth. “Your turn.”
I lean in. Her hand is steady, but her breathing isn’t.
“It’s sweet,” I say.
She chuckles softly. “Like you.”
Her gaze searches my face for my response.
I huff a soft laugh of my own. “Sweet isn’t a label I’ve ever earned.”
“I can argue about that.”
“Some other time, right now we’re eating. “I pick up a chocolate truffle. “This one melts fast.
“So do I.”
She blushes hard. I store the moment somewhere deep. I loved how she melted under my touch.
I place the truffle gently against her lips; it softens instantly, warm chocolate smearing as she bites into it.
Her eyes close again. “God. That’s amazing.”
She unwraps a cookie with reverence, breaking it in half. “Smell this. You can tell it’s homemade. The little tag said these are Grandma MacLennan's Cherry Christmas Slices “
I inhale then bite, nodding my approval. “Damn good, Grandma MacLellan, wherever you are.”
We eat the cookies and truffles slowly, the way you do when something feels special. When you’re with someone who feels special.
She nudges my knee. “Best midnight kitchen mission ever executed.”
“Easily.”
Liberty pours two glasses into the resort’s fancy crystal flutes, handing me one.
“To… whatever this is,” she says shyly.
