Chapter Thirty-Three #2
“That was my way in. My mom told me you were spending Christmas here. I had a suite reserved at the resort before Gary called me. I was coming regardless. I was tired of waiting for your call.” He smiles slyly and kisses my temple.
“I’m sorry if you weren’t ready. I know this makes me a selfish prick showing up here. ”
“Don’t. I needed the push. I can’t let him dictate my life forever.
” I lift a hand to cup his face, my fingers brushing over the rough scrape of stubble.
“And not calling or the time I asked for, it was never about you. You’ve always given me everything—patience, understanding, space. I… I want to be with you, James.”
His face glistens with tears that catch the afternoon light, turning gold against his skin.
The sight squeezes something in my chest. He’s seen me cry and break more times than I can count, but now this strong, sure man is allowing himself to be vulnerable with me.
I wipe a tear from the corner of his eye and breathe in his familiar scent.
“I’m sorry, I just—” He sniffles. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear those words again.”
“So does that mean you also want to be with me?”
“Yes. God. Yes.” His words are breathless, edged in desperation.
He slides a hand into my hair at the base of my neck and tips my head back, brushing his lips against mine.
For a heartbeat, there is only the warmth of his mouth, the press of his body as our lips meet, soft and tentative at first. A deep rumble emanates from his chest, and my nails rake against his scalp.
I tilt my head and dive in deeper, touching my tongue to his.
Gooseflesh erupts over my skin, and I revel in his touch, his lips.
The spark that’s always been there, burning between us from day one, ignites my blood.
Our kisses are languid—bitter coffee on my lips and the aching promise of something more.
No teeth clash, neither of us fumble. It’s as natural as everything else between us.
And we stay there, learning each other’s mouths, the feel of our bodies.
I moan, unable to help myself, and it seems to be his undoing.
His fingers twist tendrils of my hair between his fingers, angling my head so he can better taste me.
“Mama!” The monitor crackles to life.
I pull away, panting and trying to regain control. James watches me, breathing hard, eyes glazed.
“Okay.” I force myself to step back, the air still crackling with heat. “Let me go get Anna, and we can finish talking about what’s next.”
With my heart hammering against my ribs, I head upstairs. I know what I need to do. I’ve spent too long hesitating at the edge of happiness. I won’t make that mistake again.
***
By the time Anna and I make our way downstairs, the rich aroma of something savory greets us. James stands at the stove, stirring a pot, his broad shoulders relaxed.
An avalanche of affection rolls through me.
In mere moments I expect it to knock me on my ass with its totality.
I love this man, all of him: the fierce and the gentle, the challenger and the soft landing.
The same way he loves all of me. He isn’t afraid when I push back.
He never flinches at the sharp parts of me or tries to mold me into someone I’m not.
Anna doesn’t hesitate. She runs straight to him, her giggles ringing as she throws her little arms around his legs. He scoops her up, spins her once, and settles her on his hip, one arm holding her steady while the other stirs whatever smells so delicious.
“I’ve got mixed news,” he says, pausing, his attention caught by my exposed shoulder where the sweater has slipped.
I swallow, forcing a breath so deep it scrapes the bottom of my feet.
“The good news,” he continues, “is that outside is a winter wonderland, and we’re building a snowman tomorrow.
” His lips quirk up, tickling Anna. But his eyes remain steady on mine, gauging my reaction.
“I heard from Gary. Their flight into Burlington was canceled. They asked me to stay until they get back. They’ll text Ivy to let her know.
She’s supposed to arrive tomorrow.” He lets that sit, then quietly asks, “Do you know if anyone else is arriving tonight?”
I let out a long exhale, looking around the quiet cabin, the fire crackling in the hearth, the snow falling outside, and Anna giggling in his arms. The world has conspired to strip everything away, to leave this.
Us.
It’s me, James, and Anna.
I watch the snow piling high on the deck, silently thanking the universe for giving us this moment in time—a chance to get it right.
“Maybe Jules and Tom. But with the snow, I’d bet they’ll wait.” I meet his eyes, letting him see that the idea of being alone doesn’t scare me in the slightest. “What are you making?”
His mouth curls at the edges, pleased by my reaction. “I know how much Anna loves spaghetti. So I’m making a Bolognese sauce and fresh pasta. Want to help me?”
“You’re making it from scratch?” I raise a brow, eyeing the flour and eggs on the counter.
“Of course. I wouldn’t be a very good Italian son if I didn’t.” The smile on his lips widens, and it’s all I can concentrate on. “It’s not too hard. I’ll show you.”
Anna wriggles out of his hold and runs off to grab toys. She assembles them in the family room, lost in her own little world, leaving us alone in the kitchen.
“Alright, Maestro. Teach me your pasta ways.” I press play on a Christmas playlist, soft holiday music filling the space, blending with the scent of simmering tomatoes and garlic.
James steps behind me, his warm breath against my ear.
“First…we need to put this in a ponytail.” He pauses to see if I’ll step away, but I don’t.
There’s a slight tremor in his hand as it trails up my exposed shoulder.
A sharp intake of breath as he slides his fingers into my hair.
His touch is soft as he works his way from the ends to the roots.
This moment so different from the bathroom when he pulled my hair back to avoid vomit landing in it.
Then, I resisted. Refused to acknowledge the effect he had on me. This time, I close my eyes and feel every brush, every touch.
When he finally gathers it all at the crown of my head, he tugs, just enough to send a wave of awareness through my entire body.
I arch instinctively as a delicious ache forms. This dangerous new freedom, this space we’ve never had before.
His hands land on my shoulders, an exhale shudders from his pursed lips, and he steps back.
“Making pasta is all about feel. Start by making a well in the center,” he instructs, temptation in every syllable.
Trying to shake off the sensation of his fingers in my hair, I adopt an exaggerated English accent, channeling my best Gordon Ramsay: “Yes, make a well. Well done. That’s right.
” I laugh, hoping to break the seriousness in his face, to make him smile, to bring him back into the ease we’ve always shared.
But there’s a new tension. Not the one of the past years when we wanted to touch, but one that screams: What are you waiting for?
“Now, slowly add the eggs. One at a time.”
“Yes, My Lord,” I say, softer this time, trading Gordon Ramsay mockery for the demure purr of a medieval princess. “Am I doing this right?”
The space between us vanishes as his chest presses against my back. “I thought you once said I’d never be cast as an English aristocrat in your story?” He reaches around caging me in, guiding our hands to knead the dough.
The smile slips from my lips as the heat returns, sharp and immediate.
“That’s it,” he whispers, his breath caressing the shell of my ear. “Don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty.”
His warmth radiates over me, and I turn lifting my flour-dusted hands to the hard lines of his chest. His lips part as my fingers drift lower, down his stomach, feeling every tense muscle along the way. When I pause above his waistband, his breath hitches.
“I’ve never been one to shy away from getting dirty.”
“I have no doubt about that.” A low chuckle vibrates through him, the sound shooting straight through my fingertips. His nose nuzzles into my neck, breathing me in with the desperation of years of need. “You always smell so damn good. What’s that scent? It’s been driving me crazy for years.”
“It’s an essential oil. Combination of sandalwood and vanilla.” My voice comes out husky.
Who knew making pasta could turn into such foreplay?
He places his hands on my waist, then steps away.
We both inhale sharply. His restraint, always so careful, is cracking.
I remember those moments in the sunroom last year, his knuckles white and breathing ragged taking in the sight of me unraveling.
I want to know what happens when that restraint finally breaks.
“We’re almost done. Now we need to roll the dough out and cut it.” He sucks in a breath.
“Margaret has a pasta attachment on her mixer. Wouldn’t that make it quicker?”
James leans back against the counter, all casual ease, trying not to betray his fracturing control.
“Quicker isn’t always better,” he says, his voice low, gravelly. “I like to feel it in my hands. Take my time. Make sure every inch gets the attention it deserves.” He pauses. “Sometimes, slower makes it all the sweeter.”
His pupils are blown wide, eyes so dark they look black, and my knees nearly give out. I could drown in that stare as deep, sensitive parts of me tighten and throb. We’ve definitely taken our sweet, fucking time.
“Mama, phone!” Anna yells, wandering in with my buzzing cell.
“Oh—thanks, Bug.” I cough, still lust-hazed. I take a few steps towards the foyer. “Jules, where are you guys?”
“We’re stuck in New York. The snow’s insane. Tom doesn’t want to risk driving today,” she explains, but her voice softens. “You sound… tense.”
“I’m good. Anna and I got to the cabin earlier. Did you know your dad asked James to come here to check out a problem with their new hot tub?”
“No. No, I did not.” Even quieter, she asks, “Ivy isn’t there, is she?”
“Nope. Neither are your parents. Their flight was canceled because of the storm.” I slip further away. “We’re making pasta. I’ll put Anna to bed. Then…Is this horrible of me?”
She half laughs. “You’re single. He’s single. What’s stopping you?”
“You don’t think it’s in bad taste? You know, here?” I ask, heart thudding as I try to picture the next twenty-four hours.
“I’m the last person to ask if you want someone to talk you out of it.”
“You’re such a bad influence. See you tomorrow.”
“Wait—Syd?” She quickly adds: “Hope you packed some cute underwear.”
And hangs up, leaving me sputtering with indignation.
Cute underwear? Yeah, no.
But I look up and see him staring at me. Well… maybe on second thought.