"Just fromthat?"
I nod without apology. "You'd understand if you were between your own thighs."
She dissolves into laughter. "That might be the hottest thing anyone's ever said to me," she admits, and I grin.
"Don't move." I drop a soft kiss into her palm before getting up to grab a washcloth from the bathroom. The cold tile shocks my feet, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—hair destroyed, face still wet from her, looking completely wrecked and not sorry about it.
When I return, I clean her up gently, then myself, tossing my ruined boxers aside and climbing into bed beside her, naked and exhausted.
Already reaching for me, she curls into my side, and I pull her close until she's tucked beneath my chin, her hand resting over my heart. The weight of her against me is right, like she belongs exactly there.
"That felt different," she whispers.
I kiss her temple. "It was."
I bury my face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo—citrus, and something floral that I'll probably dream about for the rest of my life.
"Stay," I whisper, not sure if I mean tonight or forever.
She presses her lips to my collarbone. "Not going anywhere."
This time, when she falls asleep in my arms, I don't think about what happens if it all goes wrong. I just hold her tighter, listening to her breathing even out, her heart syncing steady against mine.
I could build a life around this feeling. Iwantto build a life around this feeling.
For once, I believe I might actually deserve it.
The past two weekshave played out like life inside a snow globe—perfect, magical, and sealed off from reality.
Tonight is The Enchanted Quill's holiday story hour and Santa meet and greet. The shop's transformed into a winter wonderland—twinkling lights draped across bookshelves, fake snow dusting the windowsills, and the scent of cinnamon and pine from the essential oil diffuser making everything seem magical. Kids sprawl on cushions scattered around the reading nook, their eyes wide as they wait their turn.
And Santa? He's absolutely crushing it. Caleb's borrowed suit is a little tight across his shoulders, which is doing dangerous things to my imagination. Even with the fake beard obscuring half his face, those baby blues sparkle every time he catches me eyeing him.
Which is embarrassingly often, considering I'm supposed to be helping kids with their letters to the North Pole.
"He's a natural," Margie says beside me, making me jump. She's watching her daughter perched on Caleb's knee.
"Did you know," Ana says, with all the authority of a tiny CEO, "that Rudolph's promotion was actually nepotism?"
"Nepotism?" Caleb's eyebrows shoot up behind his fake beard. "That's a big word for such a tiny reindeer expert."
"It means he only got the job because his nose was shiny." She crosses her arms. "Blitzen hadyearsof experience."
"You make an excellent point. Should we draft a formal complaint to the North Pole HR department? I know some elves in upper management."
"Who knew Caleb Miller had such a way with children?" Margie whispers to me.
My ovaries, apparently, because they're staging a full rebellion. Every time he laughs, my body betrays me with visions of future Christmases; tiny dark-blond heads and dimpled grins gathered around our own tree.
"You're blushing," Margie notes with satisfaction. "Though I can't blame you. The way he keeps looking at you in that elf costume . . ."
"He is not—" But even as I protest, Caleb's eyes find mine across the room, darkening slightly as they track down my candy-cane striped tights. Heat floods my cheeks.
"Oh, honey," Margie pats my arm, "he absolutely is."
"What's on your Christmas list this year, boss lady?" Caleb asks Ana.
Her face lights up. "A puppy! But not just any puppy. I want a Saint Bernard. Like in that movie where they rescue people? I've already picked out his name. Sir Droolsalot the Third."
