I’m completely, irrevocably in love with Samantha Allen. And I have no idea what to do with that information.
I’ve spent thirty years avoiding this exact situation. Kept relationships transactional. Never let anyone close enough to matter. Built walls so high that emotional attachment seemed impossible.
And then she showed up and dismantled everything without even trying.
Now she’s pregnant with a baby that might be mine, and all I want is to protect her from whatever’s making her look so guilty all the time.
Because she does look guilty. Constantly. Like she’s carrying a weight that’s crushing her from the inside.
I see it when she thinks no one’s watching. The way her smile drops. The way her hand drifts to her stomach and her expression turns pained. The way she stares into space like she’s trying to solve an impossible equation.
Something’s wrong. I just don’t know what.
I shut my laptop and head to bed, but sleep doesn’t come easily.
On Christmas Eve morning, the estate is a replica of something out of a holiday catalog.
Staff have been decorating for days, but today they finish the final touches. Garlands on every surface. Lights strung throughthe private wing. A smaller Christmas tree in our sitting room, decorated with ornaments that have been in the family for generations.
I find Samantha in the kitchen helping Mrs. Borris with cookies. She’s wearing an oversized sweater and leggings, hair pulled back, flour on her cheek.
She looks happy for the first time since she told us about the pregnancy.
“You’re baking?” I ask from the doorway.
She looks up and smiles. “Badly. But yes.”
“They look fine to me.”
“You haven’t tasted them yet.” She slides a tray into the oven. “Mrs. Borris is being very patient with my complete lack of skill.”
“You’re doing wonderfully,” Mrs. Borris says, patting her shoulder. “Natural baker’s intuition.”
I watch them work together, and something warm settles in my chest. This is what I want. This domesticity. This ease. She’s in my home, in my life, making cookies and laughing with our staff as if she belongs here.
“Donovan.” Samantha’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help?”
“I don’t bake.”
“You do now.” She holds out a cookie cutter shaped like a star. “Come on. It’s Christmas Eve.”
I find myself crossing the room and taking the cutter. She guides my hand to the rolled dough, showing me how to press down firmly and twist slightly to release the shape.
Her hand is warm over mine. She smells like vanilla and sugar.
I want to kiss her. Want to pull her close and tell her I love her and ask what’s making her so sad underneath the forced cheerfulness.
Instead, I cut out star-shaped cookies while she hums along to the Christmas music playing from the kitchen radio.
Christmas morning arrives with fresh snow and clear skies.
I wake up in Dad’s bed with Samantha curled against me and Kai sprawled across the foot of the bed. Dad’s already up, probably dealing with business even on Christmas.
Samantha stirs and opens her eyes. “Morning.”
“Morning.” I brush hair back from her face. “How are you feeling?”
“Good. No nausea yet.” She stretches carefully. “What time is it?”
