Chapter Five
Lucia
I whirl to find Gideon sprawled in the snow beside the toppled spruce tree, half-buried in branches like some kind of Christmas, looking absolutely mortified.
Pine needles stick to his coat, and there's a silver ornament dangling from his jacket collar like the world's most ridiculous piece of jewelry.
For a second, I just stare. Then the laughter hits me, sharp and unstoppable, bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest where all the tension has been building. It cracks open like a dam bursting, and I can't stop it.
"Oh my God," I gasp between fits of giggles, pressing my hand to my mouth. "Did you actually fall out of a Christmas tree?"
Gideon scrambles to his feet, his cheeks flushed dark with embarrassment and what might be panic. Snow clings to his shoulders, and he swipes at the ornament with more force than necessary, sending it flying into the nearby snowbank.
"It's not funny," he mutters, but his voice lacks its usual gruff authority.
"It's absolutely hilarious," I shoot back, wiping tears from my eyes. "What were you doing in there? Practicing to be Santa's helper?"
The question hangs between us, and his jaw ticks. We both know exactly what he was doing. He was lurking, listening, spying on my very private phone call where I basically admitted my life is falling apart.
But instead of addressing the elephant in the room, I find myself sliding off the bench.
"Come on, let's get this thing upright before someone sees and thinks we're vandalizing the town square."
Gideon blinks at me like I've just offered to help him hide a body. "You don't have to—"
"Just grab the other side, Stoneface."
The nickname slips out again, softer this time, and something flickers across his expression.
Together, we lift the spruce back into its stand, our movements awkward but oddly synchronized.
Like muscle memory from all those times we helped each other as kids, building snow forts, carrying groceries for his mom, moving furniture when my parents redecorated.
We work in silence, gathering scattered ornaments and hanging them back on the branches. His fingers brush mine when we both reach for the same decoration, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity up my arm that I absolutely do not want to acknowledge.
When we're finished, the tree looks almost normal. A little lopsided where Gideon broke off some branches maybe, but nothing that would draw attention from the carolers setting up across the square.
Gideon clears his throat, the sound rough in the cold air. "Cocoa?"
The word comes out like he's asking me to commit a felony, tentative and almost afraid.
I hesitate, every rational part of my brain screaming at me to turn around and glide away from this man who has the power to turn me inside out with a single look. But then he adds, so quietly I almost miss it, "Please, Lulu."
That name. That nickname only he ever used hits me like a sucker punch to the chest. He hasn't called me that since we were Seniors in High School, since before everything went to hell between us.
The sound of it in his deep voice makes my throat tighten with memories I've spent a decade trying to forget.
Against every instinct for self-preservation I've developed, I nod.
I remove my skates, handing them back to the volunteers at the rental station, then join Gideon on the bench with two steaming cups from the concession stand. The hot chocolate is perfect. It’s rich and sweet with tiny marshmallows floating on top like little clouds.
For a few minutes, we just sit there sipping our drinks in comfortable silence, watching Isla and Arwen skate around the rink with the fearless grace of children. Their laughter carries across the ice, bright and infectious, and despite everything, I find myself smiling.
The moment between us is strangely comfortable, almost like old times. Like we're teenagers again, stealing moments between his work at his father’s masonry company and my shifts at the café, when the world felt full of possibility and our dreams seemed like something we could actually have.
"You okay?" he asks carefully, his gray eyes fixed on the skaters instead of me.
The simple question loosens the knot in my chest that I didn’t even realize I was holding there. All the careful control I've been maintaining since I got that first phone call from my agent about my missed deadline crumbles like a house of cards.
"No," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I'm really not."
And then it all comes pouring out. The writer's block that's been strangling my creativity for almost a year.
The deadline for my next novel that I blew spectacularly.
My publisher's ultimatum and the terrifying possibility of having to repay my advance.
Money I've already spent on rent and groceries and the basic necessities of living in a big, expensive city.
"I haven't written anything decent in months," I admit, staring down at my cocoa like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"Every time I sit down at my laptop, it's like staring into a void.
My characters feel flat, my plots make no sense, and I can't figure out why the words just won't come anymore. "
Gideon listens without saying anything, his presence solid and steady beside me on the bench. When I finally run out of words, he's quiet for a long moment.
"You're talented," he says finally, his voice certain. "And you're going to figure this out. I believe in you."
“What could you possibly know about my career?” I stare at him, incredulous, biting back a bitter retort. “It’s not like you spend your weekends in a library.”
His mouth quirks up in something that might be a smile. "I've read every one of your books."
The words refuse to make sense in my brain. I blink, shake my head, certain I misheard. "What?"
"Every single one," he confirms, his gray eyes meeting mine for the first time since we sat down. "I have them all. First editions, mostly, though I had to get the second book online because Barnes & Noble was sold out."
Shock stills every thought in my head. Gideon has read my books. All of them. Which means he's read every hero I've ever written. Every tall, dark, brooding love interest who bears more than a passing resemblance to the man sitting beside me.
My cheeks burn with mortification. Does he know?
Can he tell that every single one of my fictional heroes is him, just dressed up in different professions and time periods?
The stoneworker who builds the heroine's dream house. The blacksmith who forges her a sword. The construction worker who renovates her bakery. All of them wear Gideon’s face in my mind.
And all of them do the one thing Gideon didn’t do for me. They run after the heroine. They make things right. They fight for their happily ever after.
I don't dare ask what he thinks of them. I can't handle that conversation right now.
"Why do you care?" The question comes out sharper than I intended, edged with all the hurt I've been carrying for so long. "Why do you care about me now, about my books, about anything? You made it pretty clear how you felt when you disappeared without a word."
Gideon's jaw tightens, and for a moment I think he's going to shut down again.
Instead, he says quietly, "I care about you, Lulu. I never stopped caring."
"Then why?" The word breaks on a sob I didn't see coming.
"Why did you leave me like that, without a single word?
I woke up that morning thinking—" I stop myself before I can say something truly humiliating.
Like how I woke up thinking we'd spend the rest of our lives together.
Like how I'd already started planning our future in my head.
Then I realized he was gone.
"I had my reasons," he says, but there's pain in his voice that mirrors my own.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you."
Frustration floods through me, hot and desperate. "That's bullshit, Gideon. You don't get to show up in my life again and act all mysterious and wounded. If you had reasons, then tell me what they were. I think I deserve that much."
He turns to face me, and the intensity in his gray eyes makes my breath catch. "You want to know why?"
"Yes."
Instead of answering, he sets his cocoa aside and reaches for me. His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen, and then he's leaning closer.
"Gideon," I whisper, but it comes out like a plea instead of a protest. “I need to know.”
He kisses me.
The contact is soft at first, tentative, like he's asking permission.
But when I don't pull away, when I make this small, helpless sound against his mouth, something breaks open between us.
His other hand slides into my hair, and the kiss turns fierce, desperate, pulling me back into a place I thought I'd lost forever.
I kiss him back without thinking, my hands fisting in the front of his jacket.
He tastes like chocolate and winter air, with a slight mineral taste that I’ve been chasing for what feels like forever.
His full lips are hard and soft at the same time, pressing against mine, achingly familiar even after all these years.
He kisses me like it’s the first time, like I’m the beginning and the end.
Like I’m the only thing that matters in the entire universe.
He kisses me like he kissed me thousands of times in my mind, on the pages of my books. Like he kissed me once upon a time.
Heat floods through me despite the cold, and for a moment I'm eighteen again, dizzy with want and the impossible belief that this—us—could last forever.
Then reality slams into me like a freight train.
No. I’m not doing this to myself again.
I shove him away, breathing hard, my pulse racing like I've just run a marathon.
"No," I gasp, scrambling to my feet. "No, we are not doing this."
Gideon reaches for me, his face stricken. "Lucia."
"Don't." I back away from the bench, from him. "Just don't."
I turn and walk quickly toward the rink where I call the girls, still skating happily, my legs shaky and unsteady. Behind me, I can hear him calling my name, but I don't look back.
"Leave me alone, Gideon," I throw over my shoulder, my voice breaking on his name.
By the time I fetch the girls, buckle them in their booster seats, and sit down behind the wheel, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely get the key in the ignition. I sit there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel and trying to catch my breath.
Inside, my thoughts are tangled and dizzy, my lips still burning from his kiss.
Am I crazy or did Gideon Flintman just kiss me?
And more importantly, why did I kiss him back?