Pete nods eagerly, and I stand, dusting off my jeans. “Ray,” I say, crossing my arms and meeting his gaze, “you can’t have ornaments without a tree. It’s like having hot cocoa without marshmallows.”
He raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You calling me out, Sophia Masters?”
“Absolutely,” I reply, my tone teasing but firm. “And I’m bringing reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements?” he echoes, his smirk growing.
“Yep.” With over-the-top dramatic gestures, I pull out my phone and scroll down the contacts. “Consider yourself officially under a Christmas decoration intervention.”
Afew minutes later, my family arrives like a whirlwind, armed with boxes of lights, garlands, and the pièce de résistance—a tall, freshly cut pine tree. Ray looks slightly overwhelmed, but he takes it in stride, stepping back as Mom, Dad, and Ben sweep into the living room like seasoned holiday warriors.
Pete’s eyes are wide with delight as my dad helps him untangle a string of lights, and my mom starts unpacking ornaments with the precision of a general preparing for battle. The room, which had felt so still and somber before, is now alive with laughter and the soft hum of holiday music playing from my Ben’s Bluetooth speaker.
I glance at Ray, who’s standing by the kitchen island, watching the scene unfold with an expression I can’t quite read. There’s a tension in his shoulders, but his eyes—those guarded, beautiful eyes—seem lighter somehow like he’s letting himself breathe for the first time in a long time.
“You okay?” I ask, walking over to him.
He nods, his lips curving into a faint smile. “This wasn’t what I expected.”
“Christmas chaos?” I tease, nudging him lightly with my elbow.
“Something like that.” His gaze softens as he looks at me, and for a moment, the noise and movement around us fade into the background. “Thanks for this. For... everything.”
I shrug, trying to downplay the warmth spreading through my chest. “You’re welcome.”
Before I can say more, Pete’s voice rings out. “Dad! Come help me with the star!”
I turn to see him standing by the tree, the star in his hands and a hopeful grin on his face. I laugh, glancing back at Ray.
“Duty calls,” he murmurs as we join Pete.
When Ray carefully places the star on the tip, his gaze returns to me. There’s so much heat in it that it’s enough to make my cheeks flush.
The tree sparkles with lights and ornaments, filling the room with the warmth and joy Christmas is meant to bring. But beneath it all, there’s an undercurrent of something unspoken. I can feel it in the way Ray watches me, in the moments when his guard slips just enough to reveal the dark, deep pain he’s carrying.
With Pete cheering beside me, I can’t help but wonder what it would take to bring light back into Ray’s life. And if I’m willing to risk everything to try. I know I should tread carefully. My marriage taught me that even the most solid-seeming foundations can crumble, leaving you buried under the ruins. Ray’s eyes, though—those stormy blues that hide so much pain—pull at me in ways I’m not sure I can resist. But what if I’m wrong? What if trying to bring light back into his life only drags me further into the darkness?
12
RAY
The living room buzzes with an energy that’s foreign to me—an invasion of color, warmth, and noise that twists my gut and tightens my chest. Sophia’s family has taken over like they own the place, hauling in boxes of ornaments, strings of lights, and a massive pine tree that fills the house with its sharp, clean scent. My house, always so quiet and sterile, vibrates with their chatter and laughter. To my surprise, that doesn’t annoy me. On the contrary, it fills my heart. It’s too bad that I’ve forgotten how to interact with people like a normal human being.
I lean against the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed, trying to keep my distance. The minimalist design of the living room—white walls, slate fireplace, and oversized beige sectional—isn’t my domain anymore. Not with her dad cracking jokes while stringing lights, her mom bossing Pete around with the authority of a general, and Pete himself squealing with unrestrained joy as he dives into yet another box of ornaments.
And then there’s Sophia.
She stands by the tree, untangling a strand of twinkling lights with a patient smile that’s so genuine it hurts. Her red hair catches the glow of the lights, making her look like she belongs in a perfect Christmas card, not here, not in my world. I should walk away. I should send them all home and put things back the way they were—quiet, controlled, empty. But I can’t. Not when she’s preparing my house for Christmas. Not when all this chaos is making Pete light up in ways I haven’t seen … since Nadya.
“Dad, look!” Pete calls, holding up an ornament shaped like a snowman. His cheeks are flushed with excitement, his hair messy from tumbling around. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“It’s cool, buddy,” I say, forcing a smile. My voice sounds wrong, too rough, too restrained, but Pete doesn’t notice. He’s too busy dragging Sophia over to show her his newfound treasure.
Her green eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment as she lets Pete pull her across the room, and something inside me stirs—a dangerous, aching pull that I’ve been fighting since the moment she walked back into my life. She crouches beside my son, laughing at whatever he’s saying, and I can’t look away. She’s too much. Too vibrant. Too alive.
This isn’t my world. My world is shadows and blood, the quiet hum of danger always lurking beneath the surface. It’s late-night calls from men like Shelby Boyle, reminding me that the peace I’ve carved out here is nothing but an illusion. And yet, watching Sophia laugh with Pete, I want to believe in that illusion, just for a moment.
When I can’t take it anymore, I retreat to the kitchen. The open layout offers no real privacy, but at least it’s a step away from the hectic activities. I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with a generous dose of whiskey. I keep the bottle on the top shelf, where Pete can’t reach it. I empty the glass in a swig, relishing the sharp sting of the liquid burning me as it goes down my throat. Maybe this will calm the storm brewing inside me. The granite countertops are cold under my hands as I lean against them, staring at the empty glass like it holds answers.
