Chapter 7
7
CLARA
The kitchen is warm, bathed in the soft morning light that filters through the back windows, making everything feel golden and quiet. I’m still not used to waking up in this villa, half expecting the space to feel cold and unfamiliar, but it’s starting to grow on me, even with Tom around. Especially with Tom around , I realize, as I catch sight of him by the coffee machine, already making a fresh cup.
“Morning,” he says, glancing up. His brown eyes are set intently on me, studying my face with a lot of attention to detail. And there’s no gruffness in his voice today, just an easy familiarity that slowly seeped into this shared villa and settled between us. He hands me a mug without me even asking, and it’s such a simple thing, but it catches me off guard.
“Morning,” I reply, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. “Thanks.”
He nods, and we stand there for a moment, just sipping our coffee. It’s almost…comfortable, this quiet, shared routine we’ve stumbled into. I don’t think I’ve been this comfortable since Santiago, and we all know how that ended, so this needs to be shut down, immediately. As soon as I’m done with my coffee, I’m walking away and staying away for the whole day.
I pour some milk into my mug, watching the swirl of colors meld together, and for a second, I forget the awkwardness that hung between us just a few days ago.
“I’m going to make some eggs,” Tom says, breaking the silence. He’s already cracking them into a pan, moving around the kitchen with an ease I didn’t expect. “Want some?”
I tilt my head to the side, focusing on what his hands are doing. “That’s such an American thing, having eggs at breakfast. I don’t think I’ve ever had them for breakfast before.”
He blinks, a little surprised and confused. “Then what do you eat for breakfast?”
“Toast? I don’t know, something that is not eggs. Pastries. Fruit? ”
”Toast with what? Just toast?”
“Jam?” I reply, but it comes out as a question almost. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” he says, turning back to the eggs in question and mixing them with a wooden spoon. “I’m not looking at you.”
Tom’s confusion is almost endearing, and I can’t help but laugh at the way he looks at me, like I’ve just told him I don’t eat breakfast at all. There’s something about his earnestness that catches me off guard, a softness that has been showing up more and more as the days go by.
“Jam and toast,” I repeat, still amused. “It’s not that weird.”
Tom glances at me, his brow furrowed in a way that is half skeptical, half curious. “It’s a little weird. Bland, maybe?” he says, shaking his head as he continues to stir the eggs. “I mean, you’re missing out on the best part of breakfast. Eggs are?—”
“Are what?” I interrupt, leaning against the counter and watching him with a grin. “A delicacy? A must-have? The peak of American cuisine?”
He smirks, shrugging one shoulder as he adds a pinch of salt to the pan. “Pretty much. Eggs are, like, the backbone of breakfast. Protein, Clara. It’s what gets you through the day.”
I laugh, genuinely amused by his seriousness. “ Okay, but explain to me how jam on toast doesn’t do the same. It’s fruit. And bread. Carbs and… whatever jam is made of. It’s fine.”
Tom turns off the stove and slides the scrambled eggs onto two plates, handing me one. “Here. Consider this your first American breakfast experience.” He’s teasing, I know it, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—maybe pride or just the simple pleasure of sharing something familiar with someone else.
I take the plate, the eggs steaming and looking fluffier than I expected. “Fine,” I say, taking a bite, and I have to admit, they’re pretty good. Simple, comforting in a way I didn’t think they’d be. “Not bad. I’ll give that to you.”
He grins, leaning against the island next to me, his shoulder brushing mine in a way that feels accidental and deliberate all at once. “See? Stick with me, and I’ll have you eating pancakes and bacon by the end of the week.”
“Pancakes? Now you’re pushing it,” I say, but I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. There’s something about this back-and-forth, this light teasing, that feels effortless, like slipping into a rhythm I didn’t know we could have.
After breakfast, Tom and I go our separate ways, but we keep crossing paths like it’s inevitable. I see him at the ski rental shop, testing out something that I assume are bindings, his expression focused and serious. We exchange a quick nod, the kind that feels more like a silent conversation. Later, at the little café by the ice skating rink, he’s at the counter ordering a coffee, and I wave from my table. It’s small moments, fleeting but easy, like the universe keeps nudging us together.
By early afternoon, I find myself at the Valentine’s Day craft fair, my breath visible in the crisp air, surrounded by the sounds of festive music and the hum of happy chatter. Booths line the cobblestone path that looks completely out of place in such a master-planned town, like maybe the only reason why this path is here is for this exact reason. Each vendor offers something different—handmade crafts, hot mulled wine, natural wreaths adorned with Valentine’s Day ornaments. It’s charming in a way that’s almost overwhelming, and I let myself get lost in the sights and smells, moving from one stall to the next.
I spot Tom by a stand that sells carved wooden animals, his attention fixed on a small horse. He turns it over in his hands, examining the intricate details, and there’s a softness in his expression that I haven’t seen before. I hesitate, wondering if I should interrupt, but then he looks up and catches me watching .
“See something you like?” I ask, walking up to him, my hands stuffed in my pockets.
He makes a gesture with his hand and mouths “one minute,” and that’s when I notice he is on the phone.
I step back, pretending to browse the neighboring stall, but I can’t help myself—I’m listening. Tom’s voice is softer than what I’ve ever heard, almost tender, and it catches me off guard.
“Hey, honey,” he says, and my heart drops to my stomach. There’s an intimacy in the way he says it, a kind of warmth that I’ve never heard from him before. I shift my focus to a display of ceramic mugs, running my fingers along the rim of one, trying to ground myself, but my mind is spinning.
Tom’s voice carries over the noise of the market, low and filled with quiet affection. “I miss you, too. It’s not the same here without you.” His words are so gentle, so personal, and suddenly, I feel like I’m intruding on something I have no business hearing.
I turn the mug over in my hand, staring at the intricate pattern painted on its surface, but my thoughts are miles away. Who is she? His girlfriend? His wife? My chest tightens, and I feel a ridiculous pang of jealousy that I have no right to feel. Tom and I are practically strangers; we’ve only just started tolerating each other’s presence. But hearing him talk like this, knowing there’s someone else he’s connected to—it stings more than it should.
“I wish I could be there,” Tom continues, his voice dipping lower, as if he’s trying to keep this moment just between them. “I love you, too.”
I set the mug down a little too forcefully, my pulse quickening. This isn’t what I signed up for. I didn’t come here to feel like some outsider looking in on a relationship I can’t ever be part of. I’m here to find myself. Not a freaking man.
I take a few steps back, wanting to put distance between us, between whatever this strange, sinking feeling is.
I glance back at Tom just as he’s hanging up, slipping his phone into his pocket. He turns to me, and there’s that softness still lingering in his expression, like he’s carrying the weight of that conversation with him.
“Sorry about that,” he says, his voice back to its usual tone, but there’s a lingering warmth there, something that hasn’t faded away. “Didn’t mean to make you wait.”
I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels. “No worries. Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding, but he doesn’t elaborate. He’s already moved on, picking up the little horse again and turning it over in his hands. But I can’t shake the heavy feeling, the jealousy curling in my chest like a hot, uncomfortable knot. I’ve been here before—getting too close to someone, only to find out they’re already tangled up with someone else. And it’s exactly what I need to get away from right now.
We walk through the rest of the market together, but my mind is only half present, caught between our earlier easy banter and the reality of what I overheard. I try to laugh at his jokes, to smile at the right moments, but everything feels a little off-kilter now, like I’m pretending to be okay when I’m not. I keep wondering about the person on the other end of his call, about who she is to him, and why it bothers me so much.
I mean, I partially know why it bothers me so much… Because in a weird, fucked up turn of events, I felt like the other woman for years, even though he didn’t cheat on me at all. And a few months ago, Santiago married someone else, when it had been clear for years, at least to me, that I was going to be the person to marry him.
As the sun starts to set, the resort begins setting up for the evening’s lights display. The sky is streaked with shades of pink and orange, and couples and families are gathering near the bonfire, their faces lit up with the warm glow of anticipation. I find a spot on a bench facing the mountain, and Tom follows behind, sitting down on the other end, our bodies completely separated by a few of the hotel-provided blankets .
“What are we watching?” he asks, his gaze set on the face of the mountain where the main chair lift operates.
“It’s the Valentine’s Day torchlight parade. The receptionist called this morning to let me know it was happening.”
At that exact second, the crowd gasps as the first skier appears at the top of the run, a red flare in one hand, moving from side to side in tandem with the music. A few more follow, and it’s a matter of seconds until the whole mountain is covered in red. An accurate choreographed display of lights and movement, skiers weaving down the slope in perfect unison, their flares casting an eerie, beautiful glow against the snow. It’s mesmerizing, like watching a river of fire flow down the mountainside.
“Wow,” I say, my voice barely louder than a whisper, not wanting to disturb the peaceful atmosphere.
He nods, his eyes still fixed on the mountain. “Yeah, it’s…” He clears his throat. “It’s something else.”
The last skier reaches the base and the crowd erupts in applause, cheers echoing through the crisp evening air. I feel a sudden rush of cold as the sun finally dips behind the peaks, and I pull a blanket tight around my shoulders, trying to hold on to the fleeting warmth.
Tom notices, his gaze flicking to me for a moment. Without saying a word, he reaches over, pulling his side of the blanket towards me, closing the gap between us. Our arms brush as he adjusts the fabric, and I feel a jolt of electricity shoot through me. It’s just a blanket, just a simple, practical gesture, but the proximity, the unexpected contact, sends my heart racing.
“Here,” he says, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “You’re freezing.”
I nod, swallowing hard as I let the blanket settle over both of us, our bodies now closer than they’ve ever been all week. The fabric is warm, but his presence is warmer, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of every tiny movement—his shoulder brushing mine, his knee pressing lightly against my thigh. It’s not much, but it’s enough to set every nerve in my body on edge.
I try to focus on the fireworks starting in the distance, the sky erupting into bursts of red and white, but all I can think about is the heat radiating from Tom, the way his arm lingers just a little too long against mine. There’s an intimacy in it that catches me off guard, something that feels both innocent and charged, like we’re toeing the line between strangers and something more.
Tom shifts slightly, and his leg brushes against mine, sending another spark skittering through my veins. I can’t tell if it’s intentional or just the natural result of sharing a small space, but it doesn’t matter. It’s enough to make me catch my breath, my mind reeling with the sudden, overwhelming awareness of him.
I turn to say something—anything to break this tension—but the words die on my lips when I see the fire in his eyes. There’s something there, something urgent and heavy, and it’s the kind of look that makes my stomach flip in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
“Ready to leave?” he whispers in my ear, his breath warm and sweet.
The fireworks explode in a series of rapid bursts, the noise drowning out everything but the thudding of my heart. I should move, get up and put some distance between us, walk back to the villa and lock myself in my bedroom until it’s time to leave this mountain. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Not when the air between us feels so charged, so full of possibility.
“Yep,” I say as I get up hastily from the bench. I stumble as I stand, my foot catching on the edge of the blanket, and before I know it, I’m off balance, pitching forward. The world tilts, and for a split second, all I see is the blur of the ground rushing up to meet me. But then, Tom’s arm is around my waist, strong and steady, pulling me back before I can fall completely.
“Whoa, easy,” he whispers, his voice low and calming as he steadies me, his hands gripping either side of my body just a little too tightly, fingers pressing into my skin. The heat of his touch sends a shiver down my spine, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the firmness of his chest, the way his fingers linger as if reluctant to let go.
His touch is electric, grounding and overwhelming all at once, and my heart is racing, not just from the near fall but from the way his presence wraps around me, warm and consuming.
“I— Uh, I’m just gonna…” I mumble, gesturing vaguely towards the villa in the distance, my mind spinning in a dozen different directions. The only thing I can hear is the beat of my heart, a reminder that this is wrong, that Tom’s not mine to think about like this. But my body isn’t listening; it’s already memorizing the warmth of his touch, the way his fingers feel against my skin.
“Clara, sweetheart,” he says softly, and the sound of my name on his lips makes something flutter deep in my chest. It’s tender, the way he says it, like he’s asking me to stay, to not run away from whatever just sparked between us.
The loud applause breaks me from my panic.
“I’m just… I need to head back,” I stammer, backing away, my eyes darting everywhere but at him. “Long day, you know?”
Tom watches me, his expression unreadable, and for a second, I think he might stop me, that he might say something to acknowledge whatever just happened between us. But he doesn’t. He just nods, his gaze following me as I fumble with the blankets and make my escape.
I hurry back to the villa and once inside, I slam the door to my room, leaning against it as I catch my breath, my heart still fluttering in my chest. I’m trying to process it all—the warmth of his touch, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world—it’s too much.
But it’s there. And it’s undeniable.