There’s a fire going in the stone hearth, low and steady, and the lighting is soft. No garish decorations. No towering tree.
“There’s a guest room upstairs.” He nods toward the stairs. “It’s got a view of the fields. Bathroom’s stocked. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He studies me for a moment, his dark eyes warm. “You don’t owe me any words. Just…don’t try to be strong tonight. You already did the hard thing.”
That cracks something inside of me.
“Want to have a drink with me?” he asks.
I look at him, and my eyes fill with tears. “Will it help?”
He shrugs. “If you drink enough, it helps to reduce the pain.”
“Then, yes.”
Cristiano lost his fiancée two years ago in a car accident; he knows all about loss and grief.
He gestures toward the kitchen. “I’ve got bourbon, tequila, and a bottle of something red Katya left last time she visited. She swore it wasdrinkable.”
“Bourbon.” I wrap my cashmere shawl around my ridiculous red Christmas revenge dress. “Please.”
I follow him into the kitchen and watch him open a cabinet and pull out a Bardstown bourbon. He sets two whiskey tumblers on the counter and pours two fingers each.
“You want to drink here or by the fire?”
“Fire.”
We go back to the living room, where two low armchairs sit angled toward each other. We sit in silence for a while, the flames casting soft amber light across the worn floorboards.
“Katya told me about your fiancée,” I tell him after a while, not because the silence is oppressive but because I want him to know that I know, and that I understand his pain.
Cristiano’s gaze flicks to me. He nods once, a small gesture that carries quiet understanding. I can tell he appreciates the acknowledgment without needing to say anything.
He’s a striking man, with strong features. His hair is darker than Aiden’s, nearly black, matching the deep, steady calm in his eyes, a gift of his Latin heritage. He’s just as tall as Aiden, but broader in the chest and shoulders.He’s a man who trains for strength, not just aesthetics.
And yet, even as I sit here beside him, my mind betrays me with comparisons.
I mock myself.
This isn’t a choice I’m weighing because neither of these men belongs to me.
The truth is, I’m not ready for any man. Not yet. Maybe not for a long while.
I need to belong to myself first.
“She died around Christmas,” he tells me, his voice low, as if he’s not used to saying these words out loud. “That is why I can’t get into the holiday nonsense. I was never big on it, but she was.”
“I’m so sorry, Cristiano.” I think about what he said and chuckle. “Though…after what I just did on Christmas Eve, I’ll probably feel the same way.”
He grins and raises his glass. “We can start our own ‘Fuck Christmas’ club.”
I laugh, and then it turns into a sob.
The funny moment passes, and all I feel is pain.
I left my husband.
