Silent night, holy night.
Snowberry Lodge seemed to embody the classic carol that the choir had sung so beautifully at the Live Nativity. It played in MJ’s head still, just after midnight after everyone had gone off to rooms and cabins.
MJ had showered and gotten ready for bed, but she couldn’t bear the wait for three a.m. when she climbed under the comforter. So, she bundled into her robe and fuzzy socks and headed downstairs to the lodge kitchen. Telling herself that Christmas breakfast was always a rush, she decided to assemble her ingredients, line up her bowls and mixer and utensils, and maybe sip a cup of chamomile tea.
As she worked, the silence felt reverent in a way, like Christmas Eve had fallen into a hush, holding its breath for morning. Most nights, MJ adored that feeling.
Not tonight oranynight for the last few weeks. The music had soured her on sleep and she no longer loved that melody or thought this was such a wonderful world.
How could something so small and impossible to explain destroy her sleep and her new relationship and her whole life?
She filled a kettle, staring out at the starry sky and moonlit mountain peaks, her thoughts a million miles away.
When the kettle whistled, she came back to Earth, filled her cup, and bounced a tea bag with small, precise moves that made her feel like this was an important activity.
But itwasn’timportant and she was delaying the inevitable and sickening wake-up call that George sent every night.
Because what else could cause that mysterious music?
“Ridiculous,” she whispered, shaking her head as she dropped the soaking tea bag into the trash. “Absolutely ridiculous.”
But fear wasn’t logical. Grief wasn’t logical. And Gracie was right. She had to tell Matt or this would drive a wedge between them that would send him packing by New Year’s Day. She could already feel his frustration that he sensed something was wrong—and assumed she didn’t reciprocate his feelings.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Butwhenshould she tell him? And how do you tell a man you care about that you might be getting messages from beyond the grave telling you to run?
MJ looked up at the sound of footsteps in the hall, only a little surprised when Matt walked into the kitchen. He looked…oh, goodness. Wonderful.
He wore sleep pants and a hoodie, hair damp from his own late-night shower, looking comfortably handsome.
She felt her heart bloom—that tiny, traitorous ache of longing she’d felt for a year in his absence and constantly in his presence. Didn’t George want her to feel that way again?
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked gently.
She tightened her robe. “You know me. Christmas breakfast waits for no one.”
He approached the counter, eyeing the small army of ingredients, a knowing smile lifting his lips.
“Two different kinds of cinnamon? Must be Christmas.”
She chuckled. “You notice everything.”
“I notice you,” he said simply.
Her breath caught in her chest. Oh, this man. Why did he have to say things like that with such gentle certainty? Why did it have to feel so…right?
“Want some tea?” she asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.
“I’d love some.”
She poured the still scalding water from the kettle into a cup and grabbed his favorite herbal tea from the tin display she put out for guests.
Setting a mug before him when he settled at the island, she leaned her hip against the quartz countertop and picked up her own mug, the warmth of the tea seeping into her palms.
The kitchen lights glowed softly off copper pots, the hush even more pronounced as the two of them stayed perfectly silent.
Matt watched her carefully, as if he could see the thoughts she was trying so hard to hide.
