We work in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the scrape of the mixing bowl and Lilliana's occasional hum. Through the windows, I can see fat snowflakes starting to fall over the pine forest that surrounds the property. They're lazy, pretty—not concerning yet. But I heard the weather report this morning while making breakfast. There's a big storm coming.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I wipe flour-dusted hands on a towel and check it. Weather alert:Blizzard warning for northern Vermont. Expected snowfall 18-24 inches. Travel not advised after 6 PM tonight.
"Whoa," I murmur.
"What is it?" Lilliana asks, peering over.
"Big storm coming tonight. Looks like we're going to have a white Christmas."
Her eyes go wide with excitement. "Really? Like, a LOT of snow?"
"Looks like it. Maybe we'll even get snowed in."
She's practically vibrating with joy, already spinning dreams of snowmen and snow angels and sledding down the hill behind the house. Kids are resilient like that. They turn everything into an adventure.
I should probably tell Henry about the storm warning. His parents are supposed to pick Lilliana up tomorrow morning to take her to their place in Burlington for Christmas. They might want to adjust plans.
The thought of having the house to myself for three days should be a relief. Time to video call my parents without hiding in my apartment. Time to not obsess over every interaction with my devastatingly attractive employer. Time to maybe look through job listings, because whatever this aching, wanting thing is, it’s becoming unsustainable.
"Finish rolling these," I tell Lilliana, "and I'll go tell your dad about the snow."
I find him in his office. It’s a converted loft space overlooking the great room, all exposed beams and natural light pouring through skylights. He's bent over his drafting table with that intense focus he gets when he's working, surrounded by architectural drawings and material samples. The winter sunlight slants through the enormous windows, catching in his dark hair and illuminating the silver at his temples.
He's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache. Mature, confident, successful. Everything I'm not.
I knock softly on the doorframe, and he looks up. His expression shifts when he sees me, like I'm a sight for sore eyes instead of his employee interrupting his work.
"Hey," he says, and even that one word in his deep baritone voice does things to me. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, just wanted to let you know there's a blizzard warning. Storm's supposed to hit tonight. Might want to call your parents if they're planning to drive up early tomorrow."
He frowns, already reaching for his phone. "Thanks for the heads up. I'll call them now."
I should leave. Go back to the kitchen. But my feet seem rooted to the floor as he dials, and I'm treated to the sight of him running a hand through his hair as he waits for it to ring. It's unfair how attractive he is.
"Hey, Mom," he says when she picks up. A pause. "Yeah, about tomorrow. There's a blizzard coming." Another pause, his frown deepening. "Yeah, I understand... no, of course not... Lilliana will be disappointed, but we'll make it work... Okay. Love you too."
He hangs up and looks at me, and there's something in his eyes that makes my skin feel too tight. Something like hunger and resignation and want all tangled together.
"They can't come," he says quietly. "The storm's supposed to be even worse south of here. They don't want to risk the drive, and honestly, I don't want them to either."
"Oh." My brain is short-circuiting because what this means is that Lilliana will be here. For Christmas. Which means I'll be here. Which means Henry will be here. All of us. Together. Snowed in.
Oh no.
"I know you were probably planning to take some time for yourself," he says quickly, and there's something almost vulnerable in his voice. "I can still pay you extra for working through the holiday."
I cut him off before he can finish that thought. "I'm not going anywhere. My family can't afford to travel this year, so we're doing Christmas over video chat. Being here is actually better than sitting alone watching them on a tiny screen."
I don't mention that I've been sending every spare dollar home. That I've been living off table scraps most nights so I can transfer more money. That the thought of my parents losing their house keeps me awake some nights, staring at the ceiling of my too-nice apartment, feeling guilty for living in luxury while they struggle.
He doesn't need to know that. He's already been more than generous—paying me well above market rate for a live-in nanny, giving me health insurance, making sure the apartment over the garage has everything I could possibly need.
His expression does something complicated—concern mixing with something darker, something that looks almost like possessiveness. "Still. You shouldn't have to work on Christmas. You've been amazing with Lilliana, and I don't want you to feel taken advantage of."
"I don't," I say honestly. Then, because I can't help myself: "I love spending time with her. With both of you."
The words hang in the air between us, heavier than they should be. His eyes lock on mine, and for a breathless moment, I think he might—
