I try to hold it in, but my mouth betrays me. “You’re a disaster, Sugar.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes sparking. “Really, Scrooge? Sorry for trying to make a bad situation a little better. At least one of us is trying to make this place feel more like Christmas.”
The words sting, but the curve of her mouth softens the blow. She’s a wreck, apron crooked and smoke curling off the tray, flour scattered everywhere like snow—and I can’t look anywhere else.
I stab into my cake and chew slow, pretending she doesn’t get to me. But she does. Every look gives me away. She’s sunshine mixed with trouble, and I’m one wrong move from burning right alongside her.
Chapter Eight
Tessa
I don’t mean to fall asleep on the couch again. After the cookie disaster, Clay and I call it a night. I try going to bed, but the silence presses in too heavy, the storm too loud. The room feels cold. Empty.
So I end up out in the living room, curled up under a blanket with some random movie playing. I tell myself I’ll stay up until the fire burns out, just to take the edge off the quiet.
Somewhere between the flicker of the screen and the crackle of the fireplace, I drift off.
As if my body senses I’m no longer alone, I jolt awake.
It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The room’s gone dim, coals glowing faintly in the hearth. Shadows crawl along the walls, the storm still battering the windows. But it isn’t the wind that wakes me. It’s someone else.
My gaze finds him across the room.
Clay.
He’s sunk into the chair, broad frame heavy in the cushions, one elbow braced on the armrest. A glass dangles from his hand, the amber catching the low light. His face is shadowed, like his head’s somewhere far from here.
I watch as he tips the glass back, finishing it in one slow swallow. His jaw tightens as he sets it down with a thud. Then he leans forward, and his eyes catch mine.
The air shifts.
His chest rises on a sharp inhale, nostrils flaring like he’s trying to get a grip. I freeze, clutching the blanket higher, my breath caught in my throat. For a moment, the only sound left is the storm. The cabin, the distance between us—it all fades under the weight of his stare.
My eyes move before I can stop them, tracing the way his white T-shirt pulls across his shoulders, the cords of his forearm muscles tensing, the lazy sprawl of his legs. Maybe it’s the liquor softening his edges, but for a second, he looks younger. Calmer. Almost like the Clay from three years ago—the one who kissed me like he’d been holding it in for years.
Something stirs low in my chest, warmth mixed with the kind of ache I’ve tried to forget.
“You talk in your sleep,” he says finally, cutting through the quiet.
My brows knit. I push up on one elbow, running a hand over my hair, checking if my messy bun is still holding on. “I do?”
He slowly nods once. His gaze drifts back to the fire, the light carving sharp angles across his jaw and catching in his eyes.
My mind scrambles for pieces of memory. I never remember my dreams. They’re often just flashes that blur with the past. What if it was that night? His back against the wall, the weight of him unstable as he pulled me in. His mouth found mine, my name breaking rough from his lips.
Heat crawls up my neck. I look down, pulse hammering, suddenly afraid of what I might’ve said out loud.
I bite lightly on my bottom lip, waiting him out. He won’t offer more unless I drag it out of him. But part of me—some small, selfish part—needs to hear it from him.
When he finally looks at me again, his gaze doesn’t waver. “Most of it was incoherent mixed with groans,” he says, his voice rough around the edges. “Until you said my name.”
The air catches in my chest, all the oxygen gone in one breath.
I grip the blanket tighter, the wool rough against my palms. His face stays unreadable, locked up tight, but the weight in his voice is enough to steal my breath.
“Oh…” It slips out small and useless, my cheeks burning hotter by the second.
Silence coils tight between us. I shove the blanket back, heat crawling under my skin until I can’t stand it. I shift toward the edge of the couch, needing the space, the distance.
