I force myself to step back. To let her go.
She straightens her sweater. Smooths her hair. Tries to look composed but her hands shake and her face is flushed.
"You should go," she says. "Dinner's at seven."
"Lucy—"
"Go." She steps closer. Rises on her toes. Presses one more soft kiss to my mouth. "Before I change my mind about letting you leave."
I go. Walk out into the cold December air with my heart hammering and my body aching and the taste of her still on my tongue.
Connor's warning echoes in my head. She'll be the one left behind.
He's right. When I leave Pine Hollow, Lucy will still be here.
And I'll be in Boston with nothing but memories and regrets.
Lucy Wright is going to break my heart.
But right now, walking through the snow with her taste on my lips and her voice in my head promising tomorrow, I can't find it in me to care.
Lucy
The first snowflake hits my window around four in the afternoon.
By five, Pine Hollow is buried under a white curtain so thick I can't see the neighbor's house. Wind rattles the windows and howls through the eaves like something alive.
"Power's going to go," Dad says from his spot by the window. He's holding his coffee mug with both hands, watching the storm the way he used to watch Mom's moods. Reading the signs. "I'll check the generator."
Connor helps him. Emma herds Maisie away from the windows and starts pulling out candles. I move through the houseon autopilot, checking locks, drawing curtains, making sure everything's secure.
Ryder watches me from the doorway. I can feel his eyes tracking my movements. Can feel the heat of his attention even from across the room. Last night at the shop, pressed against the bookshelves with his mouth on mine, his promise of "tomorrow" still echoing in my head. The memory makes heat pool low in my belly.
"You're staring," I say without looking at him.
"I know."
The lights flicker once. Twice. The house goes dark.
Maisie squeals with delight. Dad mutters something colorful from the basement. Connor appears with a flashlight, beam cutting through the sudden blackness.
"Old-fashioned night it is," he says. "Everyone to the living room."
We gather like pioneers. Dad builds the fire while Emma lights every candle she can find. Connor drags blankets down from the linen closet. I make hot chocolate on the woodstove, stirring with the old wooden spoon Mom used, steam dampening my face in the firelight.
By seven, we're settled. Dad in his chair telling stories. Connor and Emma on the couch with Maisie between them, half asleep against her father's shoulder. And me on the floor by the fire with Ryder beside me because there's nowhere else for him to sit.
Our shoulders touch. He doesn't move away. Neither do I.
"Remember the storm when you boys were eight?" Dad asks. "Martha made a fort down here. You kids camped out for three days."
"Connor thought the house was haunted," I say. "Made Ryder check the basement twice."
"You made me sleep between you," Ryder points out. "Said you'd protect me from the ghosts."
"I was six. I believed in protective magic."
His mouth tips up at the corner. That almost-smile that makes my stomach flip.
