Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
She sips, then says it with that half smile—that girl still buried under all the years. “Think Santa will come tonight?”
She means it as a joke, but a part of her really hopes, as though she still believes in miracles. Or maybe she just wants to.
I set the mug down and cup her jaw.
“Depends. Were you a good girl or a naughty one?”
Emma bites her lip. “Dear Santa,” she whispers. “I can explain everything… and even if I can’t, I was already spanked for it, so I’m good now.”
I tweak her hair. “For now.”
She goes still. That look in her eyes—hope and grief, trust and confusion—god, it kills me.
But for now, I kiss her and let the night lie.
“Aye, lass, it’s Christmas Eve, and Santa always comes for good girls, doesn’t he?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Emma
I didn’t know Owen snored in his sleep. He’s shirtless and sprawled out, with one arm slung across the couch like he owns the whole world. The firelight flickers over his bare chest, the faint scar near his ribs, and the small tat just under his arm on his torso. His lashes are dark against his cheeks.
I doubt he sleeps like this often. He’s always half-alert, like he’s waiting to fight off a nightmare. But now? Now he’s peaceful.
Now he’s mine.
I watch him for far too long, the mug cold in my hands, my feet curled under me. The faint scent of cinnamon and sugar lingers in the air.
He says Santa’s coming, and of course, I don’t have anything for him. I’m not much of a gift-giver. It always felt overwhelming trying to figure out the perfect gift.
But I’m snowed in and need to give him something. Not flashy. Couldn’t do store-bought, even if I wanted to, but I really want to give him something that’s… us.
I rifle through the cabinets and find he really did stock up well on food with an eye toward Christmas. That time when my mom and stepfather left us for the weekend and Owen grounded my ass, I kept myself busy making cookies.
Six years ago…
The morning after he grounded me, the kitchen smelled like cinnamon and burnt sugar. I had to occupy myself somehow.
I stood barefoot on the cold tile, sleeves shoved to my elbows, my apron dusted in flour. I needed to do something, anything, to scrub away last night. The bumper. His voice. That low, lethal tone that still echoed in my head. And worse, the worst of all, the way my body had liked it. That heat that crawled over me.
Now I’m focused on the dough. Clack of the whisk. Crack of an egg. I measured like I could fix it.
I was on the second tray of Christmas cookies, lopsided stars and trees that leaned a bit too far, when I heard it. The groan of the floorboards behind me.
I didn’t have to turn.
Owen.
He filled the doorway with his broad shoulders and large frame. His hoodie pushed to his forearms, sweats riding low, and his jaw shadowed in stubble. He didn’t speak. He just stood and stared at me with those green eyes.
At me.
At the apron.
At the mess I’d made of myself.
Heat flushed my cheeks before he even opened his mouth.
"I thought I told you to rest," he said, his voice low, still stern. The familiar heat instantly flared.
"Couldn’t sleep." I kept my eyes on the tray. “Wanted to be useful."
He moved in, slow and measured. "Baking at seven a.m."
Damn, was I in trouble again?
"Better than lying in bed thinking about how stupid I was."
My throat tightened. Why was I so weirdly emotional all of a sudden?
He stepped closer. The air changed.
“You’re not stupid.”
I looked up. He didn’t blink.
“You did a stupid thing. That’s not the same.”
Still felt the same.
“I just—” My voice cracked. I looked down at the cookies. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.”
His breath caught. Barely. But I heard it.
“You scared the hell out of me, Em.”
I looked up again, and then I saw it.
Not the overprotective older-brother thing. Not just fury or frustration.
Something that made my skin prickle and my stomach flip.
Was it just my imagination, or was he… did he…? He was looking at me like he didn’t know whether to drag me into another lecture or against the wall.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“I know.”
A pause. Then, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, he muttered, “Cookies smell good.”
I blinked. “You want one?”
His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Yeah.”
I handed him a crooked star. My fingers brushed his. They were warm, rough, and I wanted to memorize how it made me feel when our hands touched. He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t move.
He bit into it slowly. His jaw flexed, still watching me.
“Now that’s breakfast,” he said, and there was the smallest smirk at the corner of his mouth. He snatched a half dozen more in his big hands and turned away.