Then Wes leaned across the table without warning and stole my mug, taking a long sip as though it belonged to him. He made a face—half grimace, half challenge—and shoved it back at me.
“God, Hunter, how do you drink that? It’s like despair in liquid form.”
I snorted, tension breaking like a snapped string. “That’s the point. Strong, bitter, gets the job done.”
“More like strong, bitter, and actively trying to kill my taste buds,” he shot back, and grabbed his own froufrou mug protectively, curling both hands around it as if it were holy.
I shook my head, fighting a smile I didn’t want him to see. He had no idea how easily he pulled me out ofmy own head, how his ridiculous commentary cut through everything else.
“Maybe I should fix you,” he mused, eyes twinkling as he cradled his froufrou cup. “A cinnamon stick, maybe. A drizzle of caramel. Or whipped cream. Something to sweeten you up.”
“I don’t need sweetening,” I muttered.
He grinned wickedly. “Says the man who drinks liquid despair for breakfast. One swirl of whipped cream and you’d be unstoppable. Imagine it—Hunter McCoy, approachable professor. Students wouldn’t run for cover.”
“Terrifying,” I deadpanned, but he was already on his feet, rifling through the refrigerator. He came back waving a can of whipped cream like a prize.
“Say the word, professor, and I’ll make your coffee magical.”
I groaned, but couldn’t help laughing, and when he leaned over me, brandishing the can, I caught his wrist and tugged him into my lap instead. His surprised laugh was muffled, warm and close, and something in the air shifted—teasing giving way to something steadier.
His laugh still rumbled when I tipped my head, catching his mouth before either of us could think better of it. The can of whipped cream thunkedto the floor, forgotten.
The kiss wasn’t frantic this time. It was slow, deliberate, as if we both knew how close we stood to unraveling. His lips were warm, tasting of cinnamon and sugar, and he melted against me as though he’d been waiting for the excuse.
I cupped the back of his neck, thumb brushing the loose strands of his hair, and he sighed into me—a gentle and shivery sound that made my chest ache. For a few perfect seconds, there was no LA, no deadlines, no inheritance clock ticking down. Just Wes, ridiculous and radiant in my lap, kissing me like he meant it.
When we broke apart, his grin was crooked, breath hitching. “Told you I could sweeten you up,” he whispered.
I pressed my forehead to his, trying to ignore how much I wanted him.
How much I wanted quiet mornings with teasing and kisses and more.
Chapter 15
Wesley
Every nightsince Thanksgiving had been about Hunter—quiet suppers in his kitchen or mine, laughter spilling over cocoa, kisses lingering too long to be dismissed. Every morning was about the store, catching up on orders, wrangling decorations, and trying not to notice how easily my thoughts drifted back to him. In between, life blurred with preparations for the parade and the signing, until Callum messaged to ask if I’d come over for a chat about the legal pack I’d handed him to check.
In the past few weeks, I’d had two brisk email “reminders” from the Fairfax-Fitzalan lawyers, all caps onURGENTandRETURN BY COURIER; two increasingly icy voicemails from my oldest brother of all people insisting I sign immediately; and even a stiffly worded letter delivered byovernight courier, complete with embossed letterhead and the kind of fountain pen scrawl meant to intimidate. I ignored the lot. Callum had the papers, and that was enough—for now, I let his steady competence shoulder the weight my head didn’t have room for. He’d called me the day after I’d dropped them off, said he needed more time to consider the issues.
That was enough for me to stop worrying. After all, I knew I had until Christmas Eve to sign, given that it was my twenty-ninth birthday.
Then Brooke called this morning to say she’d watch the store and that Callum wanted to see me, so here I was, climbing the porch steps of the Haynes house, brushing snow off my boots before he waved me in. The place was unusually quiet, and I glanced around the hallway with its row of tiny boots by the door. “You don’t have the kids?” I asked, surprised. It felt odd not to hear Alice chattering or Willow giggling somewhere in the background.
Callum’s expression stayed serious, his tone even. “No. Bailey’s taken them out for a bit.”
That clipped answer put me on edge. Callum was usually measured but warm, the kind of man who smiled easily. Today, though, there was a weight in his voice, and it unsettled me. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, trying for casual. I bet he hated having to deal with legal stuff and not getting paid forit. I’m a fucking idiot. “Right. Just us, then,” I said with a smile.
He nodded once and gestured for me to follow, ushering me into his home office. It overlooked the backyard, where the snow lay unbroken and dazzling in the weak December sun. Even in here, though, there were signs of family life everywhere—crayon drawings taped up beside framed diplomas, a child-sized chair shoved up against the corner of the desk, a forgotten toy truck under the radiator. It was all very Callum—lawyerly order threaded through with the chaos of being a dad.
“Wesley Darkwood, previously known as Fairfax-Fitzalan, pursuant to a legal change of name by deed poll,” Callum said, and I winced at the sound of my birth name rolling off his tongue. Nobody called me that. Not anymore. Hearing it here, in his steady lawyer voice, made my skin prickle as if I were fifteen again and in trouble.
“I’m sorry, I mean it wasn’t a secret, but they… I didn’t want…”
He waved me off as if none of it mattered. “The documents are very clever,” he said finally, pulling the familiar papers toward him. His tone wasn’t admiring, though—more wary, as if he was showing me where the trap lay. He tapped a paragraph with the end of his pen. “This is a consent instrument—on the surface,you’re simply authorizing your trustees to act on your behalf in a defined investment opportunity. Sounds harmless, and from what I’ve seen with the last ten or so you’ve signed, very much the same. You sign, the trustees invest your principal, you make money, and that trust reverts to you next Christmas Eve when you turn thirty.”
“Yes.”
