From the first night, being here felt like home. Even if our marriage is fake, in theory, I want this moment with my husband. Another stolen moment to hold onto when it all falls apart.
“Stop thinking so hard,” he murmurs. “We had a pretty little wedding. Now give me the dance to match, please. Don’t make me beg?”
“You make it hard to say no.” I step into his arms. One hand presses against my lower back, the other threading my fingers—an old-fashioned dance to match the music.
My pulse climbs as he tugs me closer, our bodies pressed together. His intent, his gentle but firm touch, the way he looks at me—it’s all too much and somehowexactlyenough.
“I’ve never slow danced in the snow,” he says, grinning, trying to make me relax. “Tell me if I’m doing this wrong.”
“I’ve never done it either.”
A girl could get used to this.
I tip my head back to study him. His blue eyes swirl with emotion, and before I can name any of it, he spins me away and back again. I land against his chest, breathless, my heart so full it almost hurts. Pine and the warm spice of the cider we shared after dinner cling to him as we sway, and I tuck myself closer, soaking in his heat. His hand slips free of mine, lifting to cradle my face, his thumb brushing my jaw as he tilts my gaze back to his.
“Phoebe’s in bed, right?”
“I sure hope so. It’s past her bedtime. Why?”
“I owe you a kiss. A proper one with no interruptions.” His mouth grazes mine. The earlier spark blooms into a slow, powerful hum that spreads through me.
No audience. No rush. Just us.
My fingers slide into the thick hair at his nape, and I tug him closer, losing myself in the moment. Ten years ofI missed you, I’m sorry, I love you,pour into a kiss I can’t hold back. His beard scratches my skin in a delightful way, his lips are warm, and everything inside me gives.
We break for air, breaths ghosting in the cold. Thank goodness he can’t read minds.
Because my heart doesn’t just stumble, it trips right back into love with Aiden Wheeler.
And I have no idea how to handle it.
twenty-eight
AIDEN
I openmy eyes to complete darkness, still disoriented by the new room—and the rich smell of chocolate simmering in the air.
Who is making hot chocolate this early? And why?
Usually, Evelyn has the coffee timed to brew. Hot chocolate isn’t her thing. Owen sleeps until the last possible second, and he’s not getting up to cook anything.
Chloe.
I roll out of the guest bed, pull on flannel pajama pants and the long-sleeve Henley I tossed over the bench, and duck into the bathroom because morning breath is not community property.
She’s up way too early for someone who stayed up so late.
From the moment we came home from our wedding, she worked on our dinner, somehow scraped together a beautiful table spread while heating our food, then muscled decorations out of the barn, and set up that silly elf for Phoebe again.
She’s already keeping farm hours on top of her regular life, and I don’t expect her to do that. She should be nestled under the down blanket on my bed.
Opening day is long—activities, random hiccups, the works.
Rubbing my eyes, I shuffle into the kitchen and freeze. Chloe’s at the stove in a sweatshirt and leggings, hair piled on top of her head, stirring not one but two stockpots of cocoa.
“Chloe, what are you doing? Why are you up?”
“Morning!” She beams. “I couldn’t sleep, and I figured it’s not a tree-farm day without hot cocoa, right? Want a taste?”
