CHAPTER 11 #2
For a second I just stared at him. Then slowly, I positioned myself across his lap, my heart racing. This was different from the playful stuff we'd done. This was real. This mattered.
His hand settled on my lower back, warm and solid. "We're doing this because I care about you. Because I won't let you sabotage us when you get scared. Because you deserve someone who won't let you walk away. Understood?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Good boy." His hands moved to my waistband. "Jeans down."
My face heated, but I lifted my hips and let him push my jeans down to my thighs. The cool air on my skin made me shiver. His hand rested on my cotton-covered ass for a moment, and I felt exposed in a way that made this suddenly very real.
"I'm going to give you ten. Just my hand. And you're going to think about why honesty matters. Why communication matters. Why we don't plan exits when we've promised to stay."
"Yes, Daddy," I whispered.
"What's your safeword?"
"Red."
"Use it if you need to." His hand rubbed once over my underwear, then lifted. "Count for me."
The first smack landed firm and sharp, the sting immediate even through the thin cotton. I gasped.
"One," I managed, my voice shaky.
He kept a steady pace. Not brutal, but real. Each swat built on the last, the sting blooming across my skin, and it was enough to push through the anxiety and fear and planning and make me focus on right now. On him. On us.
"Five," I said, and my voice cracked slightly.
"Halfway there. You're doing so well, baby."
By eight, I was breathing hard. Not from pain—it wasn't that intense—but from emotion. From the weight of knowing he cared enough to do this. To hold me accountable. To not let me run.
"Ten," I whispered.
His hand stilled, then rubbed slowly over where he'd been swatting. "All done. Come here."
He pulled me up and into his lap, wrapping his arms around me. I buried my face in his neck and tried not to cry.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry I pulled away. I don't want to leave. I really don't."
"I know you don't." His hand rubbed up and down my spine. "But your brain tries to protect you by planning escape routes. And we need to retrain it to understand that you're safe here. That you don't need to worry about leaving."
"How do I do that?"
"By telling me when you're scared instead of hiding it. By letting me help instead of pulling away." He pressed a kiss to my temple. "By trusting that I meant it when I said I'm not letting you run. And if there’s a real reason you need to go, we’ll figure it out."
"I do trust you." I pulled back to look at him. "I'm just still learning how to do this. How to stay when things get scary."
"I know. And that's okay. That's why we have our rules. That's why there are consequences when you break them." His hands framed my face. "I love you, Mav. And that means I'm going to call you on your shit when you try to protect yourself by pushing me away."
The tears I'd been holding back spilled over. "I love you too. Thank you for not letting me run."
"Always, baby. Always." He held me until I stopped shaking, until my breathing evened out, until the anxiety that had been building all day finally released its grip.
"How do you feel now?" he asked quietly.
"Better." I took a shaky breath. "Calmer. Like that thing in my head that was screaming finally shut up."
"Good. That's what I needed to hear." He shifted me off his lap and stood, pulling me up with him. "Now let's finish making dinner. And this time, if you start freaking out, what are you going to do?"
"Tell you."
"That's right." He kissed me softly. "No more hiding. You're staying and we're building this together."
"I'm staying," I agreed, and this time it felt true all the way through. No backup plans. No escape routes. Just staying.
We made dinner together and I didn't look at the door once.
***
The next two days passed in a blur of last-minute Christmas tree customers and easy partnership.
I helped Clark with sales, hauling trees and tying them to car roofs, taking photos of families picking out their perfect tree.
Clark watched me work with this quiet pride that made me feel ten feet tall.
Thursday night, curled up on the couch with Bear sprawled across both our laps, Clark cleared his throat.
"There's a town Christmas tree lighting tomorrow night," he said casually. Too casually. "On Main Street. The whole town comes out for it."
I looked up from editing photos on my phone. "Yeah?"
"I was thinking..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I was thinking you could come with me."
"As your friend?" I asked carefully.
"As my partner." His eyes met mine, steady and sure. "I want everyone to know. If you're ready."
My heart started hammering. "You want to go public? In front of the whole town?"
"Yes."
"What if they—" I stopped, swallowed. "What if they think I'm too young for you? What if they think I'm using you or that this is some kind of... I don't know, mid-life crisis thing for you?"
Clark shifted, dislodging Bear, and pulled me fully into his lap. His hands framed my face, forcing me to look at him.
"What if they're happy for us?" he said quietly. "What if they see what I see—a smart, talented, kind man who makes me happier than I've been in years? What if they welcome you the way this town welcomes everyone?"
"But the age difference—"
"Is no one's business but ours. Mav, I love you. I'm not ashamed of that. I don't want to hide you." His thumb brushed my cheekbone. "But if you're not ready, we can wait. I won't push."
I thought about it. About walking through town with Clark, hand in hand. About people knowing, seeing us, judging us. About all the ways it could go wrong.
But I also thought about that moment in the car, choosing to follow him home. About what he'd said—choosing is scarier, but it's the only way it means something.
"I'm ready," I said. "I want them to know. I want everyone to know I'm yours."
His smile could have lit up the whole farm. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I kissed him, soft and sweet. "Let's do it."
***
Friday evening, I stood in front of Clark's bedroom mirror trying to decide if I looked okay. I'd changed shirts three times. Did I look too young? Too casual? Like I was trying too hard?
"You look perfect," Clark said from the doorway.
I turned. He was wearing dark jeans and a forest-green flannel that made his eyes look impossibly warm. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed, and he looked so damn handsome my brain short-circuited for a second.
"I'm nervous," I admitted.
He crossed to me, settled his hands on my shoulders. "I know. But baby, you belong here. With me. And they're going to see that."
"What if—"
"Hey." He tipped my chin up, his voice dropping into that commanding tone that always made me settle. "Stop. You're starting to spin."
"I know, but—"
"No buts. Look at me." He waited until my eyes locked on his. "You're mine. I'm proud of that. I want the whole town to know it. And anyone who has a problem with it can take it up with me. Understood?"
I nodded, feeling the anxiety drain away under his certainty.
"Good boy." He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Now let's go show Winterbrook who you belong to."
***
Main Street was transformed into the very picture of Christmas.
White lights draped every building, garland wrapped around lampposts, and vendors lined the sidewalks selling hot chocolate and roasted chestnuts. The smell of cinnamon and pine filled the cold air and Christmas music played from speakers hidden somewhere in the crowd.
In the center of it all stood an enormous Christmas tree—at least thirty feet tall—unlit and waiting. I recognized it immediately as one from Clark's farm. One of the perfect ones we'd tagged for the town weeks ago.
"Your tree," I murmured.
"My grandfather started the tradition," Clark said, his hand settling on my lower back as we walked through the crowd. "Been providing the town tree for sixty years now."
People greeted Clark warmly as we passed, and I felt their curious looks sliding over me. My heart hammered, but Clark's hand stayed steady on my back, anchoring me.
"Clark!" A woman with silver hair and bright red lipstick waved us over. "I was hoping you'd be here!"
"Marion." Clark smiled, and I recognized her from the mercantile. "This is Maverick. My partner."
The word hung in the air between us and the world.
Marion's eyes went wide, then her face split into a huge grin. "Your partner? Clark Gibson, are you telling me you're finally off the market?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She turned to me and I braced for judgment. Instead, she pulled me into a hug that smelled like peppermint and wool.
"Welcome to Winterbrook, honey," she said warmly. "It's about damn time someone made this grumpy man smile and got him out of the house."
"I'm not grumpy," Clark protested.
"You absolutely are. Or were." She patted my cheek. "You're good for him. I can tell."
And just like that, the first hurdle was cleared.
More people approached as we made our way through the crowd.
The librarian mentioned a book club I might like.
A woman who owned a flower shop asked if I did photography—she'd seen me taking pictures around town.
A man who ran a local marketing firm said his business could use some fresh photo content if I was interested.
They weren't looking at me like I was too young or like this was weird. They were just... welcoming me. Like I belonged here.
Like I was already part of the community.
"See?" Clark murmured in my ear, squeezing my hand.
"You were right. Again. This is becoming a pattern."
"Better get used to it."
***
The mayor stepped up onto a small platform in front of the tree, microphone in hand. The crowd quieted.