No walls.No armor.Just her warmth against my mouth, her breath mingling with mine, the impossible truth that she wanted me here, now, as I was.
And God help me, I wanted her too.
Chapter11
Belle
Iwoke with the memory of his kiss still pressed to my lips, humming in my chest like a secret song.It was both thrilling and terrifying, like standing on the edge of a cliff and realizing the ground beneath me was about to give way.Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it again—the rough desperation of the first kiss, the softer pull of the second, the way his hand trembled when it touched my cheek.
I pulled the quilt tighter around me, staring at the faint frost feathering the window.The world outside was white and hushed, but inside me it was anything but quiet.My heart felt louder than the storm had, pounding with a rhythm I didn’t know how to steady.
Downstairs, the scent of coffee and cinnamon told me Grandma had already been up for hours.I padded down the steps, tugging at my sweater sleeves to hide the blush I was sure hadn’t faded.
“Morning, sunshine,” Grandma said as I stepped into the kitchen.Her sharp eyes narrowed in that way that told me she’d already been watching.“Well, don’t you look… different.”
“Different?”I asked, trying too hard to sound casual.
Her lips curved, more knowing than amused.“Happier.Like someone lit a lantern in that heart of yours.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks.I busied myself pouring coffee, anything to avoid her gaze.“I just slept well,” I mumbled, which was true enough—though the dreams I’d had weren’t the kind I could admit.
“Mm-hmm,” she said, in the tone that meant she didn’t believe me one bit.
Before I could fumble through a change of subject, Mom breezed in, tugging her scarf from her neck and shaking the snow from her coat.She glanced at the calendar on the wall, her eyes widening.
“Can you believe it?”she said.“Only a few days until Christmas.”
Grandma chuckled.“Time flies faster every year.I remember when Belle used to count down with chocolate advent calendars.”
“I still like chocolate,” I muttered, but my smile slipped out, anyway.
Mom laughed and leaned over to kiss my temple.“Good thing you’re here, sweetheart.Wouldn’t feel right without you.”Her tone softened as she brushed a strand of hair from my face.“Though I’ll admit, you seem… distracted this morning.”
My stomach twisted, equal parts guilt and giddiness.I clutched my mug tighter.“Just… a lot on my mind.”
They exchanged one of those looks—Grandma’s smug, Mom’s curious—but, mercifully, they let it go.
I sat there at the table, sipping coffee, listening to their easy banter about decorations and grocery lists.It should’ve felt ordinary.It should’ve anchored me.
But all I could think about was him.
The way the world had stilled in his library, the storm forgotten outside.The way his scars hadn’t frightened me but had seemed to melt under my touch.The way my name sounded softer on his lips than I’d ever heard it.
And for the first time, I wondered what Christmas might feel like… if he were part of it.
The walk up the hill felt longer than usual, my boots crunching over the snow with every hesitant step.I told myself it was just another day, just another shift in the library.But my body betrayed me—palms damp in my gloves, breath catching every time the memory of his mouth on mine flashed across my mind.By the time Charlie’s house came into view, hulking and shadowed against the white drifts, my stomach was a knot of nerves I couldn’t quite untangle.
I knocked, my knuckles grazing the weathered wood.A pause stretched before the door opened, and there he was.Same scowl, same scars, but something different too—an edge in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“Morning,” I said softly, hoping my voice didn’t tremble.
He gave a grunt, stepping aside to let me in.No warm greeting, no easy words, but he didn’t shut the door in my face either.That counted for something.
The air inside felt charged, like static before a storm.We moved quietly through the house, not quite looking at each other, both of us pretending nothing had shifted between us even as we both knew better.I headed straight for the library, grateful for the excuse to put my hands to work.
I was three quarters of the way through the cataloguing now.Neat stacks lined one wall, boxes filled with titles carefully recorded in my notebook.I told myself I’d focus on the task, that I’d lose myself in the rhythm of brushing dust from spines and writing neat lines of script.
But the lie crumbled the moment I felt his presence.
