My smile fades, and I drop my hand. If only I had someone to share it with. I shake my head.What a pathetic, ridiculous notion.
I’ve been alone my entire life—spent every holiday of my adult years showering myself in expensive wine and even more extravagant gifts.No family—no man—could spoil me the way I spoil myself.
The hollow feeling that thought produces is enough to make my stomach ache. Vanity consumes me—when did I become this person?
The horse presses her nose against my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts, and I step back, out of her reach. “Sorry, I don’t have any more.” The other two horses extend their heads out of the gates, neighing equal protest.
I actually feel bad for snubbing them—me, as vain as they come, feeling guilty that I don’t have more apple slices to share with horses.
I blow a raspberry with my lips, and the horses’ ears swivel at the sound. I don’t know what else to say, and the chill biting through the air is enough to make me want to retreat inside. Even though I know a dark, empty house is waiting for me, I see no excuse to stay.
McCrae’s gone—joining his brother and the want-to-be family they’re all creating—and Santos, well, I haven’t seen him since yesterday. He was gone this morning when I finally got up, and I haven’t seen his car since.
He didn’t say where he might be going, but surely, he’s got family or friends to spend the holiday with.Everyone does.
I walk, heading toward the house as a breeze whistles through the trees standing tall and proud near the front deck. The branches sway in the cool air, knocking against the tin roof and wooden railing.
Pulling off my coat, I walk into the kitchen, only pausing when I reach the fridge and realize the lights are all on. I stop short as I face the bar top.
“What—”
“Happy Thanksgiving? Or Merry Thanksgiving? I don’t really know; I’ve never done this. My family didn’t really celebrate the holiday.” Santos fidgets on his feet, his hand rubbing over his scalp in obvious discomfort.
I stare at him, completely lost for words.
He purses his lips, and I notice the tips of his ears turning red.He’s embarrassed, and something inside me cracks, the feeling of uncertainty all too familiar. I offer him a small smile. “Happy Thanksgiving is traditional, I think. I also haven’t celebrated the holiday since I was a girl.”
His eyes widen a fraction. “Your family?”
“Hasn’t been a family in years.” I shrug.
He nods, lost in thought or uncertainty again, and I take the moment of silence to drink in the details of the spread laid out before me: Cocoa Puffs, Fruity Pebbles, Frosted Flakes, Captain Crunch. A variety of cut up fruit sits in bowls, along with cartons of regular, chocolate, and strawberry milks.
It’s every little kid’s fantasy, and I can’t help but giggle.
He smirks. “I don’t know how to cook, but I do know how to make a mean bowl of cereal, and I noticed you have an affinity for the sweet morning treat yourself. I thought—” He licks his lips.
“It’s perfect.” I reach for a bowl, too afraid to meet his gaze. If I do, he’ll surely see the sheen of pathetic tears coating my lashes as I furiously try to blink them away.
No one’s ever done something like this for me before—an act so simple and yet so profound—and I feel my icy heart thawing unwillingly toward the man. It’s a dangerous feeling, one I can’t afford to feel, but I’m helpless to stop it all the same.
“What combo would you like to start with first?” Santos waves his hand at the boxes, and I don’t miss the way his throat bobs.
“Cocoa puffs, strawberries, and…” I toss my head back and forth, “strawberry milk?”
He grins, his eyes lighting up. It’s like he didn’t expect me to take his gesture as the gift it’s meant to be—like part of him expected me to fight him over it. It lights a flame of determination in my chest, one that has me grinning back at him.
I’m not used to kindness like this, but I refuse to look a gift horse in the mouth, not now,not ever again.
“Sounds delicious! I think I’m going to start with the fruity pebbles and bananas with strawberry milk myself.”
I begin dishing cereal and strawberries into my bowl, not caring about how much I take, because size and gluttony don’t seem to matter here. “You’ll have to tell me how it is. I love fruity pebbles.”
He sets the box down, shooting me a wink. “I know.”
Butterflies erupt in my chest at the implication that he knows me—that Santos sees me and doesn’t fear the villain in his presence. My cheeks begin to heat at the thought that he might actually like mefor me.
There’s been a sexual tension between us from the beginning, but this is more, so much more, and even though I know Ishouldn’t allow myself to get comfortable, I cozy up into the feeling all the same.
