“I’m talking about the gala. You made the whole place brighter.”
“Flattery,” she teases lightly, “from the guy who ran away from mistletoe.”
I cough. “That’s not?—”
“Oh, that’s exactly what happened,” she says, poking my knee with her toe. “You bolted.”
“I didn’t bolt.”
“You vanished so fast, I’m shocked you didn’t leave behind a cartoon dust cloud.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Maybe I was keeping us out of trouble.”
She goes still. “Is that what you think we are? Trouble?”
I study her.
The firelight warms her face. Her lips are softly curved, eyes too bright, too curious, too open. The red dress is mostly hidden under her coat, but the neckline still glows like a warning sign.
“Yes,” I say. “And I’ve been trying real hard to stay on the right side of that line.”
“Why?” She whispers.
I lean back on the couch, trying to find space between us that doesn’t exist. “Because once I cross that line, Lucy, I’m not crossing back.”
Her inhale is sharp. “You talk like that’s a bad thing.”
“It should be,” I say. “Should be a disaster.”
“Should be,” she agrees softly. “But is it?”
God, this woman.
I want her. I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in years. And Holly’s letter sits in my pocket like a goddamn spark plug.
Lucy takes a sip of cocoa and sets the mug down gently. The muffled thud echoes in my skull. She tucks her hair behind her ear — a small, nervous gesture that makes my pulse spike.
“You kept looking at me tonight,” she says.
“You noticed.”
“You weren’t subtle, Ash.”
I drag in a breath. “I’m not good at being subtle.”
She smiles, flustered but brave. “I liked it.”
Silence cracks open between us.
“Lucy,” I say, voice low. “I need you to understand something.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“I can’t imagine a Christmas without you.”
She freezes. Her chest rises slowly, breath trembling, lips parting as if she’s trying to speak but can’t quite find the words.
“Ash…” she whispers.
