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He's still smiling, but there's something softer in his expression now—something that makes me forget about my wet feet.

He brushes a loose strand of hair away from my face. “Worth it, though.”

“What was?”

“Getting to kiss you.”

My chest tightens. I rise onto my toes and give him one more kiss. A quick one. Because if I let myself linger, we'll never make it downstairs.

“Next time,” I whisper, “lock the door.”

He brushes his thumb along my jaw. “Next time, Becks, I'd rather not have to hide you.”

I look at him. For a moment, I wonder if he means it.

Then someone laughs downstairs, and the sound reminds me exactly where we are.

Bishop reaches for my makeup bag and hands it over.

“Better get going before your brother comes looking for you too.”

I glance at my socks. “I'm blaming you for these.”

“Put them on my tab.”

I shake my head and slip into the hallway, carrying my makeup bag and one very damp pair of Christmas socks.

And despite everything, I can't stop smiling.

By the time I change into dry socks and make it downstairs, everyone is gathering around the dining room table.

Bishop is already there, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

He catches my eye as I take my seat and glances pointedly at my feet.

I kick him beneath the table.

His laugh earns us a curious look from Declan, but Bishop just reaches for the basket of dinner rolls as if nothing happened.

Mom has made enough food for a small army.

There's glazed ham, roasted potatoes, green beans, homemade rolls, and the sweet potato casserole Declan insists isn't technically a vegetable because it has marshmallows on top.

“It's Christmas,” Mom tells him. “Eat your vegetables.”

“Pretty sure this is dessert.”

“Then consider yourself lucky.”

Dad says grace.

For a moment, everyone grows quiet.

I look around the table.

My parents.

My brother.