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His hand came up and tucked her hair back from her face with the same deliberate care he brought to everything, and he looked at her for a moment like she was something he was still getting used to having.
“You could have mentioned that at the time,” he said.
“I was a little busy accusing your family of cookie theft.”
“Right.” His mouth curved, but there was nothing soft about the way he was looking at her now. “It’s been a complicated week.”
“It has.” Emily leaned closer, letting her lips brush his. “But I like the fire truck idea.”
Cole kissed her once, slowly.
Then he rolled her beneath him.
Emily laughed softly as his mouth found the sensitive place beneath her ear.
“Next time,” he murmured against her skin, his hand sliding down her body, “I’ll bring my gear.”
Her breath caught as his fingers moved lower.
“And tonight?” she asked.
Cole lifted his head, his eyes dark with renewed intent.
“Tonight,” he said, settling between her thighs again, “I’m not finished with you yet.”
FORTY-ONE
EMILY
Thursday, December 24th
The gingerbread Maple Falls was done, and it looked marvelous.
Kit had been at it for a week solid. Emily had helped where she could, but she’d been slammed at the bakery, finishing up all the Christmas orders that she loved so much, but still, it was a lot. Plus serving all of her holiday lattes patrons had desperately missed during the blizzard—the classic peppermint latte, creamy white chocolate mocha, and her favorite cinnamon caramel cappuccino.
Emily thought her baking was creative, but Kit’s gingerbread rendition was art—the architecture, the precision, the tiny details that nobody had asked for and that made the whole thing extraordinary. A miniature wreath on every door. Window boxes on the second floors. The faint outline of Christmas lights strung along the roofline of the bakery, piped out in white royal icing so fine it looked like thread.
“Kit,” Emily said.
“Don’t,” Kit said. “I’ll cry, and I’ve already done my makeup.”
Emily looked at her. Kit’s eyes were bright, threatening to spill the tears that were a hairsbreadth away.
“It’s incredible,” Emily said. And soon the rest of Maple Falls would see it that night at the unveiling.
The Cinnamon Spice Inn had been transforming around them all afternoon. Madison and her staff had been working since morning, laying out table linens in deep green and gold, centerpieces of pine and white candles and dried orange slices, the family room fire blazing, and the whole ground floor smelling of pine and something warm and spiced from the kitchen.
The Christmas tree in the entrance hall was lit, the ornaments catching the light, and the crafting club’s patchwork baby blanket for Zoe was displayed on a chair by the fireplace with a card in Mrs. C.’s handwriting that simply said: With love, from all of us.
Zoe had seen it an hour ago and had almost had them all crying tears of joy.
Guests were arriving in their good coats, shaking snow from their shoulders, accepting the first drinks of the evening from the trays that Madison’s staff were moving through the room. The cocktail hour was well underway—mulled wine, a champagne punch with cranberry and rosemary, something non-alcoholic and festive for Zoe that Kit had created for her named Mocktail Falls. The appetizers were exquisite: brie en croûte with honey and walnuts, miniature beef Wellingtons, Caprese skewers with fresh mozzarella, and, because it was Emily’s contribution, a platter of her sugar and spice cookies that were going faster than she could get them onto the table.
Outside, through the inn’s front windows, she could see Jackson and Liam with the farm horses and the sleigh. Liam’s family farm had supplied two horse-drawn sleighs for the evening, and Jackson was taking groups of guests through the town in circuits, the horses’ breath fogging in the cold air, the bells on the harnesses audible even through the glass.
Emily watched a sleigh go past with Emma on the front bench beside Tyler and Robyn, absolutely beaming with joy. Captain pranced beside them, giving the sleigh chase and living his best Irish setter life.
She’d found her dress—her jumpsuit, technically—in the back of her wardrobe two days ago and had spent a surprising amount of time deciding whether it was too much for a small-town Christmas dinner. It was deep green velvet, wide-leg, with a slit down the front that was tasteful in the changing room and slightly more dramatic in the mirror at home. She’d decided she didn’t care and wore it anyway, and the number of people who had said something about it in the first twenty minutes had confirmed the decision.
