Chapter 4
Four
“Hey, sorry to interrupt.”
James sits at the island, hunched over a book. A tendril of dark hair hides his eyes until he looks up and smiles.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind, but don’t judge my wine and tea combo. I couldn’t decide if it was too late or too early, so I went with both.”
“Rough night?”
“You could say that.” He hesitates, weighing his words. “I… I tried to talk to Ivy about that list Jules mentioned and how her ideal day didn’t exactly match mine. She blew it off.”
“The Wallises, everyone but Jules, could win awards for shutting down conversations they don’t want to have. Golden Globes for passive-aggressive conflict resolution.” I laugh dryly, but I slap a hand to my mouth as if I could capture the words and shove them back in. Why the hell did I say that?
He tilts his head, studying me. “What about you? What led you down here?”
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m down here for similar reasons, but I can’t tell him about Mason, about how my attempt at conversation was met with a grope and a sigh. That is way too much to admit out loud, not even something I’d tell Jules.
“Couldn’t sleep. So, what is your perfect day if it doesn’t match with Ivy’s brunching and shopping?”
“There are these lakes near where my mom lives, and I’ve always thought about taking a day to go out on a boat and enjoy the sun. Read, swim, a cooler filled with simple food and drinks.”
I can see it, the lull of the boat, a sunny, hot day. Reading until sweat drenches you and jumping in to cool off. A soft sigh escapes as I smile and glance in his direction.
He clears his throat. “What about you? What’s your ideal day?”
“First, how do you feel about brownies? Because the tea and wine aren’t going to cut it.” I quickly move to investigate the cupboards.
“I’m one-hundred percent pro-brownie.”
I find a box mix in the cupboard. As I add the ingredients, I turn his question over.
“It’s nothing glamorous. Nothing beats a sunrise run, then crawling back into bed with unlimited coffee and a book. Reading until it’s time to cook something cozy, like lasagna and garlic bread.”
Twenty minutes ago, Mason dismissed a simple question. And now, here’s a man with his chin resting on his hands and his attention wrapped entirely around my words.
“Is Mason there, or are you enjoying this all on your own?”
“It’s not his thing.” I scrape the batter into the pan, ready to deflect. “Do you run?”
“Most mornings. I love being out with the sun rising while the rest of the world sleeps. It’s when some of my best design ideas show up.”
“I get that. Something about the rhythm quiets the noise.” I tidy the ingredients as I softly say, “I normally run on my own, but I don’t mind company. If you want to get a few miles in this week.”
“I’d like that.”
Instead of meeting my eyes, he’s looking out the window—a tinge of red on his cheekbones.
We keep talking. He asks about my favorite places I’ve traveled, and I tell him about Chamonix in the French Alps.
The mountain trails, a little café serving mulled wine where I’d sit and watch the alpenglow on Mont Blanc.
“It was the first place I ever felt… peaceful. I could do what I wanted without worrying about what others thought.”
My honesty surprises even me.
“Do you do that a lot? Think about what others want rather than what you want?”
“Hazards of being an only child.” I give a half-hearted laugh and check the brownies. The look in his eyes says he sees right through my brushoff.
After a pause, he returns our conversation to travel. “I’ve always preferred small villages to cities. You get a better sense of people. I love nothing more than wandering a town with no destination or itinerary in mind.”
The image of him wandering aimlessly brings a smile to my face.
When the brownies are done, he scoops vanilla and chocolate chip ice cream, and I slice the brownies. We work in tandem, conversation never faltering. I learn he went to MIT, which is why he’s in Boston. I share about NYU and Georgetown.
“Okay, let’s see if your brownies live up to the hype.” He grins, taking a large spoonful.
The warm brownie and ice cream hit all the right notes, and I let out a soft, involuntary moan at my first bite. “God, that’s good.”
When I glance up, James is staring. His spoon suspended midair, eyes a shade darker.
Instead of the vibrant green I’ve been watching all night, they’ve morphed into the furthest reaches of a forest. Deep.
Dark. Inviting. The easy rhythm between us tilts.
My skin prickles. Something tightens low in my stomach.
“Yeah, it is,” he says, his voice rougher.
I blink, trying to clear the heat from my face. Shifting us back to neutral ground, I ask, “So… the lake near your mom’s. Did you go there a lot as a kid?”
A pause follows. A slight tightening around his eyes. His voice comes out more guarded: “We moved there after... well, after we left my dad when I was thirteen.”
I recognize his tone, the same one I use when people ask about my parents. Practiced casualness that masks what’s jagged underneath. Rather than push or ask more questions, I take another bite of the brownie. I know how hard conversations about a less-than-pleasant childhood can be.
“These are good,” he says after a beat.
“Hard to screw up a box mix. My baking specialty.” I shrug, looking down at my feet.
“You sound like my mom. She’d buy a cake, come home announcing she’d baked.”
“She sounds perfect.”
“Don’t get the wrong idea, though. I’d be an awful Italian son if I gave the impression she didn’t cook. Her chicken parmesan is still my favorite meal. No matter how busy or tired she was, we always ate dinner together. One rule she wouldn’t budge on.”
“That sounds nice.” I stand to rinse the dishes, needing some space, but I’m unable to stop asking, “So why haven’t you had your perfect day on the lake?”
He tilts his head, considering. “I’ve gone out on it plenty. My best friend in high school had a lake house, but I guess my ideal day is more low-key. And… I haven’t met someone who’d appreciate it.”
“Ah, yeah, I get it.” I flush and look down at the dishes. “Well, they say opposites attract. Maybe you can take Ivy shopping, then head out on a boat.”
He stares at me for a second too long without saying anything. I feel him debating, lost in his head. What the hell is wrong with me? It’s not like me to blurt out something without overthinking it.
Needing to fill the silence and change the mood, I say, “Sorry for interrupting your reading.”
“I have no regrets. The book was about urban planning. Riveting stuff for midnight.”
“Two kinds of ice cream and zoning ordinances? Wow, you’re living dangerously.”
He laughs—deep and real. And something in my stomach flips.
Settling next to me at the sink, he picks up a towel and begins drying dishes. “What can I say? I contain multitudes, but I draw the line at leaving dishes in the sink. My mother would feel it and call to scold me.”
My arm brushes his, and I stumble back. Too quickly. My foot catches on the hem of my sleep pants. He reaches out to gently steady me.
“Pleasant dreams, Sydney.”
And I definitely don’t go to bed thinking about the way he said my name, slow and deliberate.
Savoring each syllable as if he could taste it.
Or the feel of his hand, warm and rough with calluses.
Or the way his smile curves to tease that one dimple.
.. which definitely doesn’t make warmth spread like spilled honey.
***
“Margaret, this looks incredible.” I take in the breakfast spread. It looks straight out of a holiday magazine: flaky pastries, quiches, and carved fruit line the table in festive dishes. A poinsettia sits in the middle of it all.
“Thank you, Sydney.” Margaret beams. “Thought we should do something special, since we’re stuck inside. The town canceled the Dickens Festival.”
A proper Vermont blizzard arrived overnight. Thick snow swirls in wild patterns, obscuring everything beyond the first line of trees.
“Snow is supposed to stop soon, and Bruce down the road thinks the plows will be through by noon,” Gary says, pouring coffee. “Should we plan to ski then, take advantage of the fresh powder?”
James shifts uncomfortably at the mention of skiing. Ivy leans in to whisper, gesturing toward me.
“Syd, can James hang with you on the bunny slopes today? He isn’t much of a skier, and I want to get in some runs.”
Ivy and Mason exchange a look, like they’ve solved a minor logistical inconvenience. With us paired off, they don’t have to feel bad about leaving.
“Of course.”
“Sydney, did you make brownies?” Margaret asks, her tone light. “They look divine.”
I force a smile, trying to keep from blushing. “Yeah. I couldn’t sleep and wanted a midnight snack.”
“Careful, Syd, with that fundraiser coming up, I don’t want you feeling self-conscious in your dress.” Mason leans over and kisses my temple. “Not the best time to go up a size.”
The table goes silent.
Jules and Margaret gasp. James stiffens beside Ivy. Gary and Tom stare. Ivy stops chattering. I roll my eyes and keep eating my breakfast.
“Mason, apologize this minute,” Gary admonishes. “I raised you better than that.”
Mason glances around, shifting into his default defense. The smile that once disarmed me, I now recognize as a cover for the control he demands. His blue eyes can’t hide the cold.
“I’m just looking out for you, Syd. You hate pictures when you’re not at your best. You know, I think you’re the most beautiful woman.”
Sorry is not part of his vocabulary.
Breakfast continues in starts and sputters while everyone reels from Mason’s interruption. The ease is gone. As is my leftover glow from the night before. I’m back in my reality.
After breakfast, I find myself alone in the kitchen with Margaret, loading the dishwasher.
“I’m sorry about Mason,” she whispers. “He’s always been... particular.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” My automatic reply.
“No. It’s not, Sydney. No one should be spoken to like that.” Margaret stops me with a hand on mine. Her touch is gentle but firm. “When you walked in ten years ago, I watched you look around this cabin as if you’d never seen a Christmas tree before.”
My throat tightens. “Never one that a designer didn’t color-coordinate.”
“The first time you helped me make cinnamon rolls, your hands shook. Like you were terrified of messing up.”
“I was.”
“But you’ve never gotten it wrong, Sydney. You’re as much a part of this family as anyone born into it. I love you. Gary loves you. You’re a daughter to us. Always.”
I don’t cry—I rarely do—but something inside me exhales.
The words land in that unguarded place she first unlocked ten years ago: a space where a little girl still lives, aching for words of encouragement and kindness from a parent. Words I’ve waited my whole life to hear.
***
“You don’t have to babysit me. I can manage on my own,” James says, stepping into his boots and giving me a guarded smile.
I look around to make sure no one is within earshot and lower my voice. “I don’t enjoy skiing, so my plan involves coffee and reading.”
“Now we’re talking.” He laughs, pulling on a forest green beanie.
Blinding sun bounces off the freshly fallen snow as we climb into the rental car. In the distance, people cut across the pristine landscape. Kids sled down a hill, and a couple glides on cross-country skis. Slowly, the world digs itself out.
James pulls his hat off his head and runs a hand through his hair. He opens his mouth, then shuts it. Before saying, “Why go through with this whole thing? Why not just stay back?”
“Skiing’s the one thing Mason loves about coming up here. I don’t want to ruin that for him. So I play along, pretend I’m more into it than I am. I’ve found little ways to enjoy it.”
I keep my tone light, but I feel him listening harder than I want him to.
His brow furrows, and I pretend not to notice. Pretend he’s not reading the spaces between my words, that he’s not dissecting my marriage from an offhand comment about skiing.
“So you’ve adopted the Wallis motto of passive-aggressive avoidance?” he asks quietly.
I stare at him for a long beat, willing him to look away first. He doesn’t. “I see you have a long way to go in understanding the concept.”
He laughs dryly. “So, what’s our plan?”
“The lodge is connected to the resort’s hotel. I usually stake out a spot with coffee and a book. It’s close enough to meet everyone when they finish skiing.”
“I’ve got a book inside. I can grab it…”
“Nope.” I cut him off. “You need something better than urban planning.”
Instead of turning left toward the resort, I make a right and head into the village.
Seeing the bookstore through his eyes reminds me of my first trip with Jules. The train display is pure magic: tiny animals, gift-wrapped boxes, and miniature plates of food dot the snowy village.
James slows beside me, taking it all in. “Wow. This is incredible.”
“It’s one of my favorite bookstores.” I step closer to admire the scene’s details. “I always try to come here for a new book on Christmas Eve.”
We wander through the aisles unhurried. The low hum of conversation and children narrating Santa’s imminent arrival fills the silence. His eyes stay wide, his fingers tracing book covers. I look away quickly when he catches me watching.
“I can’t believe we didn’t talk about books last night,” James says. “But I’ve got an idea. Let’s pick a book for each other.”
“Any rules? Because I’m not reading anything involving zoning codes.”
“Ha-ha, funny lady. Fiction only. And no helping. Let’s see how well we can guess what the other enjoys reading. We’ve got ten minutes. Go.”
James rushes off, and I twirl around, the thrill of the game intoxicating.
This man is fascinating. There’s something about him beyond good looks and being well-educated. Last night, when I asked him about the lake near his mom’s house, there was more behind his deflection than a divorce; a pain I recognize.
I grab two new releases by authors I love and go with my gut instinct. He sees me waiting by the doorway and gives me a crooked smile, forcing me to bury my face in my scarf like a silly schoolgirl.