I almost choke. “She saidwhat?”
Jade grins. “With a glass of sherry in her hand, no less.”
My mother disappears into the house with a swish of perfume and pearls, leaving the door wide open and snow flurrying inside.
Jade laughs softly. “You gonna help with the bags or just keep staring like you’ve seen Santa and his elves.”
“Probably both,” I mutter, grabbing everything and still trying to catch up.
She walks beside me, close but not touching, her gloved fingers brushing mine like a promise. I don’t know what this Christmas is going to be—chaotic, dramatic, absolutely over the top—but one thing’s for sure:
She came back.
And that might just be the only gift I really wanted.
I’m not sure when the party officially started. One minute it was just Jade in the doorway, then my mom sweeping in like the damn Ghost of Bougie Christmas Present, and the next—half the town was in our living room sipping champagne and nibbling lobster canapés.
I don’t care. Because she’s here.
Jade’s hand is in mine and that’s all I can really focus on. We weave through clutches of my mother’s friends—socialites, prep school parents, a senator or two—all in designer wool and festive silk. She’s the only one that shines.
And the way she laughs when I lean in and whisper something stupid in her ear. Like she’s surprised how light it feels, how good it is to justbeagain.
“This way,” I murmur, tugging her toward the grand staircase.
“Are we sneaking off during your mom’s event?” she teases, raising a brow.
“Technically, I live here. So I’m giving you a house tour.”
“Sure. Totally innocent.”
But she doesn’t let go.
We duck into the study first—quiet and warm, with books older than both of us lining the walls. I press her against the doorway just to kiss her. Slow. Unhurried. She smiles against my mouth and wraps her arms around my neck.
“You’re seriously glowing,” I whisper.
“That’s probably just the string lights and a little illegal holiday punch,” she whispers back.
We sneak through the music room, the garden atrium, the sunroom glowing with candlelight. The house is full of laughter and music, but we’re in our own bubble. It’s the first time it feels like ours. Not my family’s museum, not a photo-op—it feels like a memory forming.
When we pass the long upstairs corridor, she tugs my hand, slowing us down. “Is that your room?”
“Why?” I grin. “Thinking about checking it out?”
“I just want to see if you still have that ridiculous wall of baseball hats.”
I open the door with a dramatic bow, and she walks in like she owns it. Her fingers trail along my desk, stopping at a framed photo of the two of us from before everything went to hell.
“You kept this?”
“Of course.””
She turns, soft eyes locking on mine. “Me either.”
And that’s when I kiss her again—deeper this time. With everything I’ve been holding back. The music downstairs swells, laughter echoing, but up here, all I can feel is her.
Maybe it’s the lights. Maybe it’s Christmas. Maybe it’s just her.
