I shake my head. “No, it’s—I mean, it’s not okay, but I’m okay.” I pluck the box from Jess’s hand and unwrap it.
It’s a necklace with words looped through thin gold wire. It readsQueen Bee.
I look up at him, smiling. He has a shit-eating smirk on his face. “You also said that the Christmas Eve gifts were silly,” he explains.
I laugh. “I’ll wear it next spring to make sure the bees know who’s boss.”
Jess goes in for another box from a pile I now realize is just slightly separate from the rest of the gifts under the tree. He hands me a gift bag from Hunt. Inside is a sweater with naked gingerbread alphas across it that saysNaughty or Nice.There's a definite emphasis on the naughty.
I burst out laughing. He shrugs good-naturedly. "I saw them in the window and couldn't resist."
I slip the comfy oversized sweater over my head to cover my dress. I'm engulfed in pillow soft warmth. It was definitely too cold for my dress tonight.
The next gift is from Luca. It’s a special custom LEGO set of Bee Haven—the guys’ new resort.
“So we can build the hotel together,” he explains with a sly smirk. I kiss him and agree to try. Kids do LEGOs, right? I should be okay. I can already imagine us sprawled out on the living room rug, tea on the table, laughter mingling with the smell of cocoa and pine.
The last present is bigger, about the size of a the coffee table. It's thin and rectangle. I look to Cole.
“I broke the rule about it being silly. Sorry, little one.”
I frown down at the package and pull off the wrapping paper. What I hold takes my breath away.
It’s a very familiar picture of me and my grandma, arm-in-arm in front of some of the hives on the farm. We’re smiling and happy. It was the last summer before she got sick. But instead of the grainy Polaroid I have tucked in a drawer upstairs, Cole’s had it commissioned into a vibrant painting. The colors seem to glow in the light of the fire, soft honey tones and meadow greens that make my throat ache.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until Cole turns me and kisses the tears off my face. The brush of his lips lingers, deepening into something slow and certain. His lips are soft and hot, and my arms come up to wrap around his neck. The world narrows to the scent of pine and wood burning, his breath warm against my skin
“Thank you,” I murmur. The fire hums, the Christmas lights twinkle faintly, and for the first time all day, I feel still.
“I love you, Sunny,” he says, deep and true. The words rumble against my chest, low and steady, like a heartbeat I can feel instead of hear.
I settle into his arms and reach out to Luca, who lies down against the back of the couch, his head on my abdomen. His cheek nuzzles the silk of my dress, and his breath ghosts over my skin. Hunt leans into Jess’s arms, and they both relax in front of me, within easy reach. The fireplace crackles, and its light mingles with the glow of the Christmas tree. Outside, snow drifts softly against the windows, but inside, everything is warm, slow, and safe.
Clara
I can’t sleep. And when I can’t sleep, I write. I went to bed with the others, but I snuck out and came downstairs to light a small fire and write on a notepad. It’s been an hour, and I’m no closer to sleep than when I came down here.
As I flesh out a scene, my hand begins to move the pen in ways I don’t control—until I’ve written, in old, cursive scrawl that doesn’t match my handwriting:Come out.
I look toward the back door.
Setting my pen and paper down, I pad to the door, slip on my coat and a pair of snow boots—no socks—and step out into the cold, Christmas Eve night.
The wind bites, sharp and clean, smelling faintly of pine and lake salt. In the dim light spilling from the living room window, frost glitters on the porch railing like powdered glass. I can just make out the edge of the bluff behind the house. I softly make my way across the small back yard on the edge of the bluff until I reach the edge. To my left, a set of wooden stairs zigzags down the side of the dune to the beach below. The beach runs into Lake Michigan, which stretches to the horizon like an ocean,black and endless beneath the moon, the horizon blurred into pitch black.
A full moon hangs in the sky, reflecting off the snow like a pale sun. And at the edge of the frozen lake, I can see a figure made of light and memory. An alpha, waiting.
“Finian,” I murmur, my breath fogging in front of me. I carefully make my way down the frozen steps—the guys are careful to salt them each day—and cross the crystalline, snow-crusted sand. It crunches under my boots.
Finian turns. His appearance takes my breath away every time. He wears a newsboy cap pulled low over blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, a vest over a dress shirt and slacks. The faint shimmer of moonlight passes through him like smoke. He looks like an Edwardian gangster, and it makes my knees weak.
He reaches a hand out to me, palm up. I slide my hand into his automatically. It’s cold and soft at the same time like snow just before it melts. It makes me shiver, but I wouldn’t let go for anything. Finian begins pulling me toward the frozen lake, but I hesitate.
He crowds back into me, his chest pressed to my front, and threads his fingers through my hair. “I would never let anything happen to you, darlin’,” he vows, his voice rich and low, the Irish in it soft as candlelight
I nod and follow him out. My foot slides on the ice as I gracelessly skate in snow boots. The temperatures have been well below freezing, and this part of the lake is solid.
But Finian turns, wraps his arms around my waist, holding me close. We begin to move—not walking, not skating, but gliding. I feel like I’m flying. The air whips around Finian, but he shields me, keeping me in a cold but stable pocket of space.
