“What can I do to help?” he asked, his voice still rough from sleep.
“Set the table?” Deftly, she slid another pancake onto a plate and drizzled the glaze in looping ribbons, dusting it with more cinnamon for good measure.
He moved around the kitchen, setting out cups and silverware and topping off her coffee. When she turned with two short stacks, he was waiting with her chair pulled out.
The gentlemanly gesture made her smile. “Let’s eat.”
For a while, the only sounds were forks scraping plates and Riggs’s sighing, ever hopeful for scraps but not daring to nose his master, Lily noted. She tucked her bare legs beneath her chair and picked at her own plate, suddenly aware of the quiet stretching between them. She looked up to find him watching her with that unreadable expression that made her want to squirm.
Rush broke it first. “Haven’t had pancakes on Christmas morning since…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “A long time.”
She tilted her head. “Did you have another tradition?”
“Girls would tear into their presents. Pop would make coffee. Sometimes I’d fry eggs.” He cut into his stack with the edge of his fork. “Nothing like this.” He gestured at his plate.
Warmth unfurled in her chest at that news. She liked thinking she’d made something new with him.
“Well,” she said lightly, “they’re not gourmet, but a box mix and”— she lifted her fork, miming a flourish—“cinnamon swirl glaze turned out pretty good.”
“Pretty damn good.” His mouth tipped in the faintest smile. The sunlight streaming into the kitchen caught on the cuts onhis hand as he lifted another bite, and before she could stop herself, the words spilled out.
“How are your hands?”
His fork froze in midair. For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer, just flexed his fingers. “They’re fine.”
“Rush…” Impulsively, she reached across the table and brushed her fingers lightly over his knuckles.
His jaw flexed. He stared down at the cinnamon swirl on his plate. “I’m sorry about last night. You shouldn’t have had to see that.”
“I’m glad I did.” She smoothed her thumb over his skin, feeling the roughness there. “You don’t have to hide the hard parts from me.”
His eyes rose then, storm dark, meeting hers, and for a moment, her breath caught. There it was again—that rawness he tried so hard to lock away.
Then it was gone, shuttered again. He cleared his throat, nodding at her unfinished plate. “You gonna finish those?”
She pushed the plate over wordlessly and let him retreat. Baby steps.
Except that he got up and left the table. Searing disappointment filled her. The walls had gone up again. She sipped her coffee and concentrated on her breathing, only to look up a moment later when he set a small, plainly wrapped box in front of her.
“Merry Christmas, Lily.”
Her eyes widened in dismay. “I don’t have your present with me.”
“I don’t need anything.” He nodded at the box, smiling. “Open it.”
Carefully, she unwrapped the paper and opened the lid, gasping when she saw the rose quartz from the Christmasmarket nestled inside. “You remembered.” Her throat got tight, and her eyes filled.
“Don’t cry, angel.” He got up and took the necklace from her. “Lift your hair.” He buckled the clasp and left a lingering kiss on her shoulder before returning to his seat. “Figured it belonged on you.”
She sniffed, truly touched. “I can’t help it. You’re very thoughtful.”
She got up, slid onto his lap, and kissed him. “Thank you,” she whispered against his lips, resting her forehead against his.
Rush’s arms locked around her lightly. After a beat, he cleared his throat. “You still want to go with me today to visit Pop?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, sitting up. “I’d like that.”
“He’s… Pop’s not always himself. Some days he doesn’t know me.” He hesitated. “I just want you to be prepared.”
