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)
I rolled my eyes. “They were for later.”
But my heart was slamming in my chest.
Because for the first time… I wasn’t sure this crush was one-sided.
Not at all.
The cookies are simple ones. Did he make sure I had the ingredients so I could recreate them? Or was it just a coincidence?
Why do I get the feeling nothing’s just a coincidence with him? I find the ingredients, tiptoeing like a thief, mixing by the dim light over the sink.
While they bake, I write.
It’s a short story, just two pages. About a hunter who falls in love with a girl made of snow. He builds her a cabin, then warms her with stolen fire. She melts in his hands and asks, "Will you mourn me?" And he says, "No. I'll make you again. As many times as it takes."
I sign it: For Owen. Who never lets go.
That’s two presents. I hope he doesn’t think they’re lame. I think hard on what else to give him before it strikes me: a coupon book.
Folding old paper scraps, index cards, and the back of a receipt, I draw little hearts in the corners, doodle mistletoe, and write in my half-loopy cursive:
There are more.
Some sweet. Some filthy. By the time he stirs, the cookies are cooling, and the snow has stopped. Outside the window, it’s inky black, and I imagine I see the silhouette of Santa’s midnight run.
Owen blinks, groggy, half smiling when he sees me by the fireplace, wrapped in his hoodie.
“Hey, Santa,” I whisper. “You have to get up. It’s almost midnight.”
He stretches, then stands and pads over barefoot, still sleepy, sexy as fuck.
“What’s all this?” he murmurs against my neck. He smells the cookies.
“Ooh. That reminds me…”
“Of the time you were watching me and got mad because I took the car and you grounded me?”
“Mm-hmm. Exactly. You were lucky I went easy on you.”
I snort. “You call that being easy on me?”
He gives my ass a slap and winks, fisting a handful of cookies. “Santa needs to fatten up.”
Then he sees the papers.
“What’s this?”
“I owed you a present or two.” He lifts the story first, reading it quickly. Then again, more slowly. His jaw works, emotion flickering there. When he’s done, he doesn’t speak. Just pulls me close and buries his face in my hair.
“Fuck, lass.” It’s all he says.
Then he sees the coupons. The look on his face shifts to dark, possessive, amused.
“You tryna kill me?”
“Thought it was festive.”
He flips through them, murmuring the words to himself. That vein in his neck throbs, and his breath deepens. When he looks at me again, it’s not sleepy at all.
“You’re mine, Em.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean it. You keep doing shit like this… I’ll never let you go.”
“Good.” I slide a cookie between his lips. He groans and eats the whole thing in a few big bites.
Then he lifts me, fast and rough, one arm under my thighs, and carries me toward the bedroom. My laughter bounces off the walls.
“Merry Christmas, Owen.”
He kicks the door shut—his mouth at my neck. Hands everywhere.
“Merry fuckin’ Christmas, Emma.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Emma
I wake to the steady sound of his heartbeat under my ear.
It’s Christmas morning, and Owen is in bed with me.
Merry Christmas to me.
One arm is around my back, the other slung over me. The sheets are tangled between our legs. My cheek’s pressed to warm skin—his skin—and I don’t move.
I can’t. I won’t.
If I could freeze time, I would stop the clocks right here. Right now.
It smells like cookies. Like cinnamon. Like sugar and spice and everything nice.
My stomach growls, and I bite back a laugh.
He doesn’t stir. Still half-asleep, one hand slides up, anchoring me closer, like he knows I’m about to move.
I close my eyes again. Five more minutes.
Then I kiss his chest and slip out, padding into the kitchen wearing his flannel, hearing him stir behind me. I turn toward the living room.
And stop.
Because holy shit.
The entire cabin is transformed.
Twinkle lights are everywhere. Pine garland hangs over the windows. The real tree in the corner is now covered in gold and red ornaments, candy canes, and tiny carved figures I don’t recognize but know he picked with me in mind.
There’s Christmas music playing low. Bing Crosby, for fuck’s sake.
And under the tree?
Presents… wrapped in festive paper with tacky bows and little tags that say, “For Her,” and “For Em,” and “Don’t open until I say.”
When I finally look up, he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee, wearing nothing but joggers and a smug grin.
“Merry Christmas, lass.”
“You did all this?”
His eyes drag over me, hungry. “Had to make it special. First one you’re mine.”
My throat catches.
“You’re crazy,” I whisper. Something flickers in his eyes. “And I love it.”
“Come, open your gifts.”
I sit cross-legged in front of the tree. He kneels beside me and reaches under the tree for the first one.