Chapter 8 #2
Once I was settled, he closed the door gently and walked around to his side. The cab filled with the faint scents of pine, coffee, and something warm and spice-leaning—maybe cinnamon from Holly I admitted, a little embarrassed, that it was the animated reindeer one with the claymation and the misfit toys.
“That one’s a classic,” he said. “Misfit toys, glowing noses, found families. Hard to argue with the formula.”
“You say that like you’ve known me longer than a handful of days,” I replied.
“Feels like longer,” he said, quiet enough that I wasn’t entirely sure I was meant to hear.
Someone across the room laughed loudly at a joke. A kid dropped a spoon and it clattered against linoleum. But I was too busy watching the way Graeme’s fingers pressed a red candy into the roofline, thumb smoothing the frosting around it like he was tucking it in.
“You’ve done this a lot,” I observed.
“Occupational hazard,” he said. “Christmas shop, small town. You end up overqualified in wreaths and gingerbread.”
“You like it?” I pressed a row of little sugar pearls along the roof edge.
“I like what it does to people,” he said. “They loosen up. Remember how to have fun. Even if it’s just for an hour.”
My chest did that weird twist again.
“Rudy,” he said gently.
I looked up.
“You’ve got a little frosting right here.” He gestured near my cheek.
“Oh.” I swiped at it with my fingertips, missing completely. “That figures.”
“Here,” he said.
He stepped closer, lifting his hand and waiting—giving me ample time to move if I wanted to. I didn’t.
His thumb brushed my cheek, careful and unhurried, wiping the smear away. His skin was rough in the best way, the pad of his thumb dragging lightly over sensitive skin.
My breath stalled.
He brought his thumb to his mouth, eyes still on mine.
Heat flared low and fast, a tight coil in my belly, radiating outward. My heart stumbled, then raced to catch up. The room seemed to tilt a degree toward him, the air between us thickening.
Graeme swallowed, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “There we go,” he murmured.
It had been months—long, lonely, confusing months—since Nate, since I’d let myself want anything more than numbness. My body had been a thing to ignore, to manage, to keep under control.
Now, standing in a sugar-scented community center, my pulse roared in my ears. My skin buzzed. Every nerve ending from my spine downward came online all at once, waking up after a very long sleep.
“Good job on the roof,” he said, voice warm. “I’d trust it in a snowstorm.”
A laugh startled out of me before I could stop it.
“Thanks,” I managed. My own voice sounded thin, shaky. “You, uh, really committed to the gumdrops.”
He huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “What can I say? I’m a man of excess when it comes to candy landscaping.”
The ridiculousness of the sentence saved me. I snorted, then clapped a hand over my mouth, embarrassed. He smiled, full and open and so fond my chest physically hurt.
We kept working, passing the frosting bag back and forth, fixing a leaning wall, sticking gumdrops where they covered mistakes best. At some point, Rosa drifted by and made a pleased noise, sprinkling powdered sugar over the roof like a blessing.
The room filled in around us as people finished and gathered, voices overlapping, kids tugging on sleeves to be lifted up for a better look. Someone bumped my elbow. A shoulder pressed into my back.
Graeme’s hand settled at my lower spine without comment, warm and steady, exactly where it needed to be. I leaned into it without thinking, my body deciding before my brain could argue.
“You’re doing great, sweet boy.”
God, those words made my insides go soft, unspooling toward that familiar, hazy place. I could’ve curled into it right there, let the noise and the lights blur while he steered me through it.
Instead, I took a slow breath and stayed where I was—grown, present, over-aware of the way his body brushed mine through layers of winter clothes.
Applause broke out near the front of the room.
“And this year’s gingerbread champions,” someone announced into the mic, “are the Fitzgerald twins—again.”
Good-natured groans followed. Someone whistled. Rosa clapped like she’d personally trained them.
Graeme leaned slightly toward me. “Figures.”
I smiled, surprised by how little I cared. Our house sagged a little on one side, frosting smudged where we’d fixed mistakes, gumdrops unapologetically overused.
“Charmingly whimsical,” Rosa declared as she passed, tapping our table. I took it as a win.
Graeme tipped his head toward the exit. “You want some air?”
I nodded.
We didn’t head back toward the inn. Instead, Graeme angled us down a narrow side lane that skirted the community center, the noise fading behind us until all that was left was the soft crunch of boots and the hush of falling snow.
My fingers tingled inside my gloves.
“You did well,” Graeme said quietly.
“At piping?” I asked. “That roof is a structural hazard.”
“At letting yourself have fun,” he corrected.
I watched the snow gather along the edges of the path, untouched except for our steps, the white unbroken ahead of us.
“It was easier,” I admitted. “With you there.”
“Good,” he said simply.
We slowed near a stand of bare maples where the path opened onto a small, plowed clearing—nothing special, just space and quiet and the glow of one streetlamp set back from the road. Graeme stopped, turning to face me fully.
“Rudy?” he said softly. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
Hours ago, I might have dodged. Made a joke. Kept it light.
“It’s not just—” I gestured vaguely, catching at the air. “Not just the… rules. Or the… safe stuff. I mean, that’s— God, that’s huge. But it’s… more, and I don’t know what to do with that.”
“More how?” he asked, voice careful.
Heat rushed up my neck, into my cheeks. “You touched my face in there and I thought I was going to melt through the floor.”
His eyes darkened, the pupils widening just a fraction. He stepped in, close enough that I could see the faint snowflakes melting in his beard.
“I like being with you,” I said.
His expression softened, something warm and intent settling there. “I like being with you too.”
“It makes this feel risky,” I added, quieter. “Because I’m only here for a little while.”
“I know,” he said. No deflection or false comfort.
For a moment, we just stood there, the cold pressing in gently around us.
“This is me being careful,” he said at last. “And honest. A man who’s very attracted to you. And a Daddy who will still stop if you say stop.”
My breath hitched. “Oh.”
His hand lifted slowly, giving me time to move away if I wanted to. I didn’t. His fingers curled lightly at my jaw, thumb resting just below my cheekbone.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Please.”
He leaned in, unhurried. Our noses brushed. Then his lips met mine. The first press stole my breath. The second gave it back differently.
I made a soft sound before I could stop it. His hand settled at my waist, drawing me closer. Heat flared where we met.
“Good boy,” he murmured against my lips, and my knees nearly gave.
I could have gone small right there. Let the world blur. Let him hold me through it.
I pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against his.
“You okay?” he asked, the Daddy tone gentled into something protective.
“I’m scared,” I admitted.
His hands stilled—not pulling away, just anchoring me there. His thumb brushed once at my jaw, grounding.
“Of me?”
“No,” I said. “Of wanting this. Of wanting more than I get to keep.”
His breath left him, like he’d been holding it.
“Thank you for telling me,” he said.
Then, quieter: “All your pieces are safe with me, sweet boy.”
A pause.
“For as long as you’re here.”
Another breath.
“Grown, small, and everything in between.”
My chest felt too full, tight in a way that wasn’t pain.
“I like the man who makes sarcastic comments about candy landscaping,” he went on, mouth curving. His thumb traced a small arc, keeping me grounded.
“I like the boy who holds a plush like it’s a lifeline.”
My throat worked.
“And I like the part of you that wants structure—and the part that’s still learning how to ask for it.”
Every word landed somewhere low in my chest.
“And if it ever feels like too much,” he finished, voice calm and sure, “we stop.”
I didn’t have a clever thought.
Just the quiet, startling certainty that I was being seen.
His lips found mine again—firmer this time, but still patient. His hand at my waist tightened just enough to tell me how much he wanted me—without asking anything of me.
He stepped in closer, chest lining up with mine, his thigh sliding between my legs. Heat flared at the contact, sharp and immediate.
Desire rolled through me, thick and startling. It had been so long since I’d let myself feel it that for a second, I didn’t recognize it as mine.
Then I shifted—barely—and felt him.
Hard.
Pressed along my upper thigh.
Wanting me.
The jolt of it nearly buckled my knees.
He swallowed the small sound I made, angling his head to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushed my lower lip, asking.
I opened for him on instinct, my arms sliding up around his neck, pulling him closer as the world narrowed to heat, breath, and the steady certainty of his body holding mine.
When we finally eased apart, my hands stayed curled in his coat, reluctant to let go.
“You good?” he asked softly.
I nodded, surprised by how true it felt.
We stood there a while longer, breathing each other in, the snow falling soft around us—no rush or rules, just the quiet knowledge that whatever this was, it was real.