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He had one at my cottage.

Neither development had required a summit meeting.

Inside, I slipped out of my coat while Damien carried Laurie’s food to the kitchen. A pine wreath hung over one of the windows, slightly crooked because I had put it there and refused his offer to fix it. Two framed photographs sat on the shelf beside his books. One was of his family. The other had been taken at The Sugar Basket in November, when Angie’s oldest child had somehow convinced everyone to squeeze into one picture.

Damien came up behind me and slid his arms around my waist.

His beard brushed my temple. “You’re doing it again—the quiet thing that means you’re about to tell me something complicated.”

I leaned back against him. “I was admiring my wreath.”

His gaze moved to the window. “It’s still crooked. Gravity remains undefeated.”

I turned in his arms and looked at it. “It has character. More than the one string of lights you left in a box and called decorating.”

He smiled, kissed me once, and drew me toward the kitchen.

We opened the sparkling wine Laurie had sent with us and carried two glasses into the living room. Snow had begun falling more heavily beyond the windows, softening the wooded slope outside.

The clock on the mantel showed eleven fifty-three.

I curled one leg beneath me on the couch.

Damien sat close enough that my dress brushed his thigh.

“There’s something I want to talk about before midnight,” he said.

I looked at him over my glass. “That sounds suspiciously organized.”

“I’ve been dating you long enough to prepare.”

I let him have that answer.

His fingers closed around mine. “When the snow’s gone, I want us to start looking.”

I knew what he meant without asking, but I waited.

“For a place,” he continued. “Or a plan for this one if that makes more sense. I don’t want you giving up the studio or spending half your life driving down the mountain because I happen to like trees.”

“I like trees,” I said. “I like being twelve minutes from my office more.”

“I don’t want to give this up either,” he said, glancing toward the dark windows. “But I don’t need this exact house more than I need a life that works for both of us.”

The words settled somewhere deep.

We had talked around it before—nights at his house, nights at my cottage, which place made sense after late events, what happened when he had an assignment that took him away for several days.

This was different.

I set my glass down.

“I don’t want to sell my cottage tomorrow, and I’m not moving my business.”

“I don’t want either of those things.”

I smiled. “Good. Then after winter, we look. Maybe somewhere lower on the mountain. Maybe we figure out whether this place can work better. We don’t decide until we find something we both actually want.”

I moved closer until our knees touched. “Then yes.”