Page 181
Baby, she thought. You absolute—
She made a sound that was half laugh, half something she didn't have a word for, and she turned and ran for the kitchen.
He was barefoot.
That was the first thing that hit her—seven-foot-four of pure Cal Meridian, standing at the stove with his back to her, hair still damp and dark from the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of faded jeans slung low on his hips. No shirt. No shoes. Just miles of warm golden skin, the heavy cut of muscle across his broad shoulders and down the long, powerful line of his spine, and the way the December light poured through the windows and kissed every inch of him like it couldn’t help itself.
The air smelled like heaven. Crispy bacon, maple syrup bubbling sweet and thick, fresh coffee, and underneath it all, the clean, masculine scent of his skin still warm from the hot water. The soft sizzle of the pan mixed with the low hum of Christmas music drifting from somewhere behind him, and Sage felt her whole body answer like it had been waiting for this exact moment.
I love you so much.
The thought came raw and helpless, straight from the center of her chest. Her nipples tightened against the soft inside of her sweater. Heat pooled low in her belly, slick and sudden, and she had to press her thighs together just to stay upright.
When it comes to Cal, Sage Thompson, you are an absolute slut.
She didn’t even feel ashamed of it. She wore it like a badge…proud, wet, and glowing.
He turned then, spatula in one big hand, and that boyish, devastating grin broke across his face the second he saw her. His eyes dragged over her body, slow, appreciative, hungry and the look in them made her knees actually wobble.
“Merry Christmas, princess,” he rumbled, voice a rough from low. “Hope you’re hungry.”
Yup. Slut.
Hopelessly in love.
Proud of it.
ANNIE
She’d been awake since five.
Not the anxious old kind, the kind that used to rip her out of sleep with her heart already hammering, terrified of what fresh disaster was waiting just beyond the dark. This was different.
This was just… awake. A soft, quiet wakefulness that came from a woman who had finally, after so damn long, decided that mornings could be safe.
She lay still, letting the warmth of the blankets settle around her like a slow, forgiving embrace. The flannel smelled faintly of the lavender soap she’d started buying once money wasn’t quite so desperate — a small, silly luxury that still made her pause every time she caught it. For a few minutes she simply listened to the apartment breathing with her.
Tommy’s snoring rumbled through the thin wall, that familiar uneven rhythm she’d fallen asleep to her whole life. It hitched, caught, then settled again like it always did. Her younger brother, forever a child in so many ways despite being just a few years younger than her. Lily’s and Ethan’s rooms stayed blessedly quiet. The radiator ticked and hissed softly in the corner, a patient little heartbeat of its own, pushing out waves of dry heat that made the air feel thick and safe.
Outside, snow kept falling in lazy, indifferent drifts. The streetlamp beyond the curtain painted a pale orange square across the ceiling that slowly brightened as morning crept in.
This is enough, she thought, the words settling warm in her chest. No beatings. No eviction notices taped to the door. No empty refrigerator humming its lonely song. No more fear clawing at the back of her throat.
Thanks to Cal.
She had a warm apartment that was well taken care of, a working radiator, and a superintendent named Lucy who had knocked on her door just last week with a plate of her mother’s dumplings, still steaming, fragrant with garlic and broth, asking if the kids needed anything. She and Lucy had become friends. So different from before. All thanks to Cal. Thanks to the man who had saved her a long time ago.
The memories still caught her off guard, even when she tried not to think of them. Mary Sue had eventually hired her at the diner and paid for a therapist. Annie had learned her avoidance was a “coping mechanism.” She’d agreed with the woman and kept right on coping.
She didn’t want to remember.
Still… she had a job she was good at, night school two evenings a week, and a savings account whose balance still surprised her every time she checked it. She had her kids, her brother, her people.
This is enough.
It was. Mostly.
Sometimes, though — in these soft mornings before the kids woke, or in the quiet of night when they were finally asleep — she let herself imagine someone to share her life with. Someone to love, and be loved by.
