But then he clears his throat and looks away. "Thank you," he says, his voice rough. "For everything. You're... you're really good with her. Better than any nanny we've had." He meets my eyes again. "You're different."
Different how?I want to ask. Different because I'm competent? Or different because there's thisthingbetween us that neither of us can acknowledge?
But I don't ask. Instead, I step back toward the door, putting safe distance between us. "I should get back to Lilliana. Those cookies won't bake themselves."
"Maren," He stops, seeming to reconsider whatever he was about to say. "Yeah. Go ahead. I'll be down in a bit."
I flee before I do something stupid like close the distance between us and find out if his mouth tastes as good as I imagine.
By evening, the storm is well and truly here. The wind howls around the barn's solid frame, rattling windows, and snow swirls past the massive windows in thick, hypnotic curtains. But inside, it's warm and glowing—a fire crackling in the river-stone fireplace that dominates one wall, the smell of woodsmoke and pine filling the air.
The Christmas tree stands in the corner of the great room, still bare, and after we finish dinner, Henry suggests we decorate it.
"Really?" Lilliana's eyes go wide. "We were going to wait for Grandma and Grandpa!"
"I think we should do it tonight," Henry says, his eyes meeting mine over her head. "Make our own traditions."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at thatour. Like I'm part of this. Part of them.
We spend the next hour transforming the tree. Henry lifts Lilliana up to place ornaments on the higher branches, while I work on the lower ones. Christmas music plays softly from the expensive sound system hidden in the walls, and snow continues to fall outside like we're inside a snow globe.
It's perfect. Painfully, beautifully perfect.
"This one's my favorite," Lilliana says at one point, holding up a glittery snowflake ornament that's clearly been handled by small fingers for years—the glitter is half rubbed off. "Daddy bought it my first Christmas. I was just a baby."
"You were," Henry confirms softly, and there's so much tenderness in his voice it makes my throat tight. "You were three months old and screaming your head off every time I tried to putyou down. I had to hold you in one arm while I decorated the tree with the other."
Lilliana giggles. "And I was a loud baby, right?"
"The loudest." But he's smiling, genuine and warm, and god, he's devastatingly handsome like this—all soft edges and open affection.
I have to look away, blinking back unexpected tears. This man raised a baby alone from three months old. Some woman from a one-night stand showed up at his door, handed him an infant, said "I can't do this," and walked away forever. And he just... stepped up. Built a successful architecture firm from home so he could be there for every moment—every middle-of-the-night cry, every first word, every scraped knee. Never dated seriously because Lilliana came first, always.
And somehow, against all odds, he's raised the sweetest, most well-adjusted kid I've ever met.
It kills me that I can't be part of this family. Not really. Not the way I want to be.
"Maren?" Lilliana's voice pulls me back. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, sweetie." I force a smile. "Just thinking about how beautiful the tree looks."
She beams and goes back to hanging ornaments, and I catch Henry watching me with an unreadable expression. Like he knows exactly what I was really thinking about.
After the tree is done, we collapse on the plush leather couch to admire our work. Henry puts onThe Muppet Christmas Carol, and Lilliana settles between us with a bowl of the cookies we made earlier. The lights from the tree cast everything in a soft, warm glow, and outside the storm rages, but in here, we're safe. Cozy. Together.
I'm so screwed.
Halfway through the movie, I feel a small weight against my shoulder. Lilliana's fallen asleep, her head tucked against me, one hand still loosely holding a half-eaten cookie.
Henry notices at the same time I do. "Out like a light," he murmurs, and his voice is so soft, so fond, it makes my heart squeeze.
"Long day," I whisper back, afraid to move and wake her.
He stands carefully, and I shift so he can scoop Lilliana into his arms. She doesn't even stir, just curls into his chest with a soft sigh that's so trusting it breaks something open in my chest.
Watching him carry her, seeing the tenderness on his face as he looks down at his daughter, does something to my insides that I'm pretty sure is illegal in several states. This is what I want. This man, this child, this life. All of it.
And I can't have any of it.
