Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twevle
Snowflakes the size of feathers drift past the windshield, catching in the headlights before dissolving into nothing.
The world outside is muted to me, the kind of silence that holds its breath as we drive deeper into the unknown.
Rhys taps the steering wheel to the rhythm of a song I can’t hear, his eyes fixed ahead through my Audi’s windscreen.
Neither of us have said much since leaving the city, and if he’s feeling the same trepidation as I am, he doesn’t show it.
The phone call with his dad the other night had temporarily drained away all of his cocky remarks to let me see the man beneath.
Raw and stripped back to a boy craving affection, a motherless child who wasn’t taught how to love.
We were blind drunk and could have easily turned reckless, but instead Rhys wanted to be held all night.
Much like when he broke into my dorm, the physical contact of my fingers stroking his back was enough.
Then my period arrived and he’s been treating me like I’m made of glass, as if this isn’t a monthly occurrence I have learned to endure.
The car turns onto a narrow country lane, and I shift in my seat and glance out the window.
The forest breaks into a clearing, revealing a house set so far back from the road, you wouldn’t know it was even there.
My eyes widen, the serenity of it nothing like what I expected.
I’d imagined something sleek and modern, a show of Rhys’s wealth.
But the place before us looks like it’s been plucked from a winter postcard.
A two-story cabin stands, wrapped in strings of soft golden lights that trace the eaves and windows.
A wreath hangs on the red front door, the kind made from pinecones and ribbon, while a pair of lanterns glow faintly on the porch steps.
Snow coats the roof, gathering thickly along the rails of the wooden deck that circles the front.
“Woah, Rhys. It’s… beautiful,” I murmur, content to simply stare at it.
Rhys throws the car into park and stretches his arms behind his head, pretending nonchalance but watching my reaction from the corner of his eye.
Is that nervousness I sense? Tilting my head in his direction, the warmth of my smile ignites his own. “You have good taste.”
His laughter falls on my deaf ears before we open the car doors and step out into the cold.
The air bites at my cheeks, my boots crunching beneath my feet as I tilt my head back, taking it all in.
The lights, the quiet, the faint smell of wood smoke in the distance.
Shouldering our bags, Rhys trudges toward the door and punches a code into the lockbox beside it.
Inside, warmth greets us immediately. The living room glows in shades of amber and gold, a fire already crackling in the stone hearth.
Someone, probably the rental staff, has gone all out.
A Christmas tree stands in the corner, tall and full, its branches dusted with faux snow and trimmed with glass ornaments that glint in the flickering flames.
Red stockings hang above the fireplace, white fur trim around each one.
Digging my receivers out of my pocket, where they were stowed for when I inevitably fell asleep during the drive, I click them in place.
I want to experience this with all of my senses.
There’s music playing softly from somewhere in the house, a slow instrumental version of a Christmas song.
It’s like walking into a memory I’ve long since stored away, of a little girl giddy to spend the holidays with loved ones.
I feel like her again, so much so tears gather in my eyes.
Rhys sets the bags down with a grunt, his boots thudding against the floorboards.
“Too much?”
“It’s perfect,” I say, hiding my face by kneeling in front of the fire to warm my hands. Then, a thought strikes and I twist back to see Rhys watching me. “Do you have any pleasant Christmas memories?” A harsh laugh echoes around the large room as Rhys drops heavily to his knees at my side.
“I got everything I ever wanted,” he replies bitterly, knowing full well that’s not what I’d asked.
I decide then and there that I’m going to relive some of my favourite festive traditions this holiday, and I’m not talking about the costumes Aunt Marg would force me to dress her cats in for their annual photoshoot.
I mean the ones I used to share with my parents.
Rhys deserves to know what family is supposed to feel like.
Once warmed through, I hang up my coat and wander through the open archway into the kitchen.
It’s huge, with marble countertops, copper pans, and a long farmhouse table that could seat ten.
A garland of evergreen stretches across the cabinets, and there’s a bowl of oranges on the counter beside a handwritten note welcoming us to the property.
Rhys eventually joins me, leaning against the counter with his arms folded.
His gaze sweeps over the room, but I know he’s only half-seeing it.
He’s distracted today, and I reckon I know why.
“Do you think he’ll come?” I ask, not needing to specify who I’m talking about. Rhys glances out of the window, his body remaining just as tense.
“I don’t know.” I walk toward him, watching the way the firelight from the living room casts lines across his face. Placing my hands on his arms, I dislodge him and step into his hold.
“Whether he does or doesn’t, it means a lot to me that you asked him. Thank you.” I lean up on my tiptoes and brush my lips over his. Rhys groans softly, his palms slipping under my t-shirt to cover my back.
“I can’t seem to resist you.”
“Good,” I smile, pulling his bottom lip between my teeth. Rocking his hips against me, that groan comes again, and Rhys’ fingers dig into my hips. Then, he pushes me a step back and hangs his head.
“Stop teasing me. You’re out of action for at least another few days.” Rearranging his dick in his jeans, Rhys turns to lean on the counter. A mischievous smile crosses my face as I drape myself over his back and whisper into his ear.
“My mouth isn’t.”
“Fucking hell,” Rhys chokes, spinning so fast I shriek. Lifting me, he plants my ass on the countertop and buries his face into my neck. “Such a naughty little minx. I’m trying so hard to be respectful for the first time in my damn life.” I reach between us and grab his shaft through his jeans.
“Mmmm, so, so hard Rhys.” Shoving himself away from the counter, Rhys grabs the bags and storms up the stairs, shouting for the entire world to hear.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Harper Addams!”
Outside, the snow keeps falling, blanketing the world in white.
I peer out of the windows often, as if I can materialize Clay out of pure longing.
The worse the weather gets, the more my hope diminishes.
Even if he isn’t coming, I hope he’s somewhere safe.
Worry gnaws in my gut as I go about the house, unpacking our bags and checking the pantry.
Rhys and I bought out most of Target on the way over.
Extra clothes, junk food, a bunch of things I just thought were cute.
The house owner offers a grocery delivery service, although the refrigerator is fully stocked to see us through the rest of the week. We have mostly everything we need.
I’ve lit all of the candles lining the mantelpiece by the time Rhys appears with two steaming mugs of cocoa.
Streams of chocolate drip over the rim, a smudge of powder on his cheek.
I conceal my reaction, both amazed that Rhys has evidently never made himself a hot drink before and humbled that he put the effort in for me.
We settle down on the sofa, a thick blanket pulled over our legs.
The fire cracks, the tree glows, and the mounted TV is playing a cheesy movie.
It's a picturesque evening, even if my gaze wanders to the front door more times than I can count. Sighing gently, I lean my head against Rhys’s shoulder, the heat of him seeping through my sweater.
He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head until it rests lightly atop mine.
If this is what it’s like when Rhys isn’t trying to get into my pants, I might pretend to be on my period three weeks out of the month.
We remain like that for hours. The fire burns low, soft embers glowing like the last heartbeat of the day. White flakes swirl against the windows in steady waves, the whistle of the wind sounding over the TV. Rhys’ head grows heavier and I know soon, we’ll have to lock up and head upstairs.
“Rhys,” I mumble, nudging my shoulder against his chest. He jerks upright, momentarily disorientated.
“Huh?” he blinks sleepily, noticing the credits of the movie are rolling. I pry the empty mug from his hand and set it aside.
“If I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?”
“Probably,” he yawns behind his hand. I push myself upright and fold my legs beneath me.
“You did invite Clayton, right?” A knowing huff leaves him as he scrubs a hand over his eyes. He was waiting for my doubt to creep in.
“Regretfully, yes I did.”
“And you gave him the correct address?” I press on. If this has been one big trick on both of our parts, I’d rather know now. Rhys raises a brow, his face unimpressed. I lick my lips, glancing towards the window again. “It's just...he should have been here by now. He had a head start.”
I knew the hotel wasn’t a permanent situation, but when Rhys’ father put an end to our stay, we scrambled for a solution.
One that would be far enough away from the creep back at Waversea, and one that could accommodate all three of us, should Clayton need a place to stay.
Catching me chewing on my bottom lip, Rhys pries it free with his thumb.
“Maybe he's not coming, Babygirl. If that's the choice he made, then you have your answer. You've done more than enough.” Rhys’ voice is firm but not unkind. Still, it lands somewhere deep in my chest, where the last fragile hope I’ve been holding onto starts to splinter.
My throat tightens and I stand, walking toward the window.
The warm light spilling out from the lounge makes everything blurred and golden.
My reflection stares back. Tired eyes, messy hair, a faint frown etched between my brows.
The truth is, I miss Clayton with every aching part of me.
I miss the way his voice softened when he said my name, the way his gaze lingered, always on high alert for the next threat.
But I can’t keep waiting around. Rhys is right, I’ve done enough.
I’ve groveled for a prank I had no part in, begged for forgiveness that wasn’t mine to seek.
I’ve put my heart on the line for Clayton to cherish or crush.
I suppose I have my answer. He’s not here now. He didn’t come.
Arms wrap around my waist, fingers brushing my hips.
Leaning back into Rhys’ chest, the reflection changes.
No longer alone, I’m now being held by a man who has chosen me time and again.
Even when he did have reason to cut me off, Rhys couldn’t stay away.
He’s the opposite of Clayton. Selfish, entitled, vain, and devoted to me.
Rhys’s hand comes up to my jaw, twisting my face to look up at him.
“Let’s go to bed.” There’s no mistaking the way he’s looking at me, practically famished. Turning in his hold, I flutter my lashes innocently.
“Even though I’m out of action?” I smirk. A flare of lust bursts within Rhys’ blue eyes. He lowers his head and laughs deeply beside my ear.
“Your mouth isn’t.”