Even when it's killing me to wait.
3
Maren
Oh my god.
Last night actually happened. He came to my apartment. He kissed me. He touched me. And if Lilliana hadn't woken up, we would have—
My phone buzzes. A text from Henry:Good morning. Lilliana wants pancakes. Join us?
Is he regretting it? Is he going to pretend it didn't happen? How do we act around each other now?
I type back:Be there in 15.
I shower quickly, my body still buzzing with unfulfilled need from last night. When I touch myself in the shower, it takes approximately thirty seconds to come, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning his name.
I wear a Christmas sweater and leave my hair down in loose waves, and add just a touch of lip gloss because I'm weak and I want him to look at my mouth and remember what it felt like to kiss me.
When I walk into the main house through the mudroom entrance, the smell of coffee and bacon hits me first. Then I see them: Lilliana at the table in her Christmas pajamas, chattering away, and Henry at the stove.
He turns when I enter, and our eyes lock across the kitchen. Heat flares between us, immediate and undeniable, and for a moment neither of us moves.
Then Lilliana spots me. "Maren!" She scrambles out of her chair and runs over to hug me. "Look how much snow there is!"
I force myself to look away from Henry and focus on his daughter. "Wow. That's a lot of snow, huh?"
"Can we build a snowman after breakfast?"
"Absolutely."
I risk another glance at Henry. He's watching me with dark eyes, his jaw tight, and I can practically feel the restraint radiating off him. He wants to cross this kitchen and kiss me. I want him to.
But Lilliana's here, so we don't.
"Pancakes are ready," he announces.
We sit down to eat, and it should be normal. We've had breakfast together a hundred times. But everything's different now. Every time our eyes meet, heat flares between us. Even sitting across the table feels too close and not close enough at the same time.
Lilliana, bless her, is completely oblivious. She's too busy planning out our day—snowman building, gingerbread house decorating, a Christmas movie marathon.
"And tonight we have to leave out cookies for Santa," she says seriously. "And carrots for the reindeer."
"Of course," Henry agrees, his lips twitching. "Very important."
She looks between us with those big, earnest eyes. "Do you think Santa will still come even though its snowy?"
"I know he will," Henry assures her. "Santa always knows where to find good kids. And you've been very good this year."
She grins, satisfied, and goes back to her pancakes.
I catch Henry's eye across the table, and something passes between us. Understanding, maybe. Or acknowledgment of what we're protecting by being careful. This little girl who's already lost one mother. She deserves stability, security, people who won't leave her.
And that means Henry and I need to figure out what this is between us before we let Lilliana see it.
We spend the morning outside building the world's lumpiest snowman. The storm has passed, leaving everything blanketed in pristine white that sparkles under the weak winter sun. The property looks like something out of a Christmas card—the converted barn with its timber frame and floor-to-ceiling windows, the pine forest dusted with snow, the mountains rising in the distance.
This place is worth millions. I looked it up once, curious. The land alone, with all these acres and the privacy and the views—it's the kind of property people dream about.
