Chapter 11
Eleven
Declan
I park by the tasting room where the sun hits the valley like a silver coin. I’ve spent the last three days at the firehouse, and the weather has caused all sorts of problems. Today was hard. We had a family succumb to carbon monoxide. I hate the valley this time of year.
Snow sits clean on the hedges, and the oaks glitter with frost. Vines stretch in neat rows, dark lines under white. Paradise Hill looks like it has been brushed with light. The day is cold and bright. The kind of cold that wakes you up before you reach for the door.
I grab the small paper bag and head for the porch.
Tarryn stands on the top step with a staple gun and a coil of ribbon.
Elise and two volunteers wrap boughs along the railing.
Ladders squeak. Someone hums the carol. Tarryn looks over, and the look she gives me is warm enough to make me forget the air.
“Morning,” I offer.
“Morning,” she answers. “You here to help or flirt with the staff?”
“Both. I brought a bribe.”
Elise flicks a bow at me. “Carry your bribe past the porch. Do your wooing somewhere else.”
“I already tried that, and they sent me here,” I tell her.
“Figures no one wants you,” she fires back, then winks and heads for the far post.
Tarryn steps down. Her cheeks are pink. Her hat is pulled low with a curl that refuses to hide. She taps the bag with the staple gun. “What is it?”
“A surprise. Walk with me.” I tilt my head toward the barn. “We can check on deliveries on the way.”
“We.” She bumps my shoulder as we fall in step. “Since when are you management?”
“Since breakfast.”
“Who promoted you?”
“Me. It was unanimous.”
She laughs, and it puts something easy in my chest. We cut along the path where the plow scraped early and the sun dries the grit. The field shines on the far side of the barn. A hawk glides over the lower blocks and turns into the light.
“You were at the holiday market the other day,” I say.
“You stalking my errands now?”
“Gathering clues. Do you still look for old ornaments?”
“I do. Mom and I started when we were little. We kept a list. Bells. Angels. Toy soldiers. Things with chipped paint and stories.”
“Good. Then you’ll like this.” We step into the open barn door, and the warm air lifts the cold from our sleeves. “I hope.”
The barn smells of hay and cedar and a little oil. Radiant heaters tick. Strands of lights hang in loops from hooks. The big workbench is a mess of wire and wreaths. I set the bag there. She watches my hands like the bag might run.
“Open it,” I tell her.
She pulls the top and lifts out a small white box. Inside, wrapped in tissue, is the nutcracker. Deep green coat. Red jacket beneath worn at the edges. Tiny mouth that still moves when you press the lever. A small chip at the hat brim.
She breathes in. “No way.”
“I went to Old Town. Talked to a booth that carries estate finds. Showed a photo from your parents’ album. I could not get the same one, but this lived in the same world.”
Her eyes shine, and she tries to hide it with a crooked mouth. “Who told you the story?”
“Beckett. He told me you dropped it in a fight with Ryker over the star. Your dad kept the hook and teased you for a week. You hated the hook more than losing the ornament.”
She looks up fast. “He did keep that hook. It made me mad every time I saw it.”
“Do you like this one?”
She cups the nutcracker in her palm. “I love it.”
“Then it belongs here.”
“On the big tree,” she says. “With you.”
“With me.”
She returns it to the box like she’s putting a small thing to bed. When she looks at me again, the ache under my ribs is not a bad ache. It’s the ache that tells me I’m where I should be.
“You owe me for this,” I tease.
“Oh. Do I?”
“Snowball fight. Winner gets lunch. Loser has to climb the ladder for the high ribbon cuts.”
“That’s not a punishment. That’s power.” She grins and tugs my sleeve. “Come on.”
We leave the box on the bench and head out the back. The field behind the barn rolls soft and white. The sky is sharp blue. Our boots crack crust. Breath shows as bright clouds and floats away. She bends and packs snow quick and clean and sends the first one at my chest.
“Attack without warning,” I protest.
“War has no warning,” she returns.
“Truce is on the table if you admit I look good in a hat.”
“You look like a man who lost a hat fight.”
“You wound me.”
I scoop and throw and miss. She nails my shoulder and then my thigh.
I build bigger. She darts left and right.
I chase. We cut trails across the field in wild arcs that look like we drew them on purpose.
I get close, and she flies past and laughs and I’m not interested in winning anymore.
I’m interested in the sound of that laugh going on.
“Dirty trick,” I huff.
“Resourceful,” she corrects.
We grab for snow at the same time and run out of balance. I catch her waist and we tumble down in a slide that sends powder up in a burst. She lands across me with hair under her hat and a rosy mouth that tips at the corners. She pins my wrists with her hands, and I test the hold.
“I win,” she announces.
“Bold claim.”
“True one.”
I roll us, and she rolls with me. We end up in a tangle with me above, the snow cool through my coat and the heat of her where we touch. We stop because we want to, not because we have to. Her eyes go to my mouth.
“Declan,” she whispers.
“I hear you.”
Powder melts on my neck and runs under my collar. My hands are not patient. Her hands are not patient either. We kiss until the cold burns and we only notice because the sun moves and tells us time is shifting.
“Truce,” she murmurs.
“Lunch on me,” I agree.
“Fine. But you climb ladders.”
“You just want the view.”
“I like the view right now.”
We rise, brush each other off, and walk back with our shoulders touching and our steps a little out of rhythm like neither one of us wants this to feel like a straight line.
Inside the barn, the heat feels like a hand at our backs. She slips off her hat and gloves and stuffs them in her pockets. I close the door to a crack. Light cuts a bar across the floor. We hover near the workbench.
“Thank you,” she says. “No one has ever done that for me. Listening that hard.”
“I always listen to you.”
She studies my face, and whatever she looks for, she finds. “Then listen again. I want you. Not just today. Not just the rush. I want the hard parts too. But I’m still afraid.”
“I know. So we do both. We go slow where it matters. We go fast when it feels like we can fly. We keep talking.”
Her mouth opens like she wants to add rules, and then she shakes her head and smiles. “Close the door.”
I push it shut, and the world narrows to heat and hay and the sound of our breath.
She steps and I step, and we meet where the shadow from the door softens on the floor.
The kiss starts light and then forgets how to be light.
Jackets slide. Her sweater lifts at the hem and my palms find warm skin.
She shudders and rises to meet me. I back her to the old haystack and the workbench where the blanket waits on the lower shelf like it knew this was the job today.
“Tell me what you want,” I whisper because I need her to steer.
“You,” she breathes. “More.”
She smirks, and I feel it like a live wire under my skin. The look in her eyes flips something in me. One second, I’m in control. The next, I’m not sure who’s running this.
Her fingers hover at the edge of her shirt, teasing the fabric higher, slow enough to make my pulse trip. I don’t move. I can’t. My gaze tracks every inch she reveals, the air between us growing heavier with each breath.
The shirt hits the floor. She tilts her head, eyes glinting with challenge. “Like what you see?”
Words feel useless. I let silence answer for me because she can already see everything written across my face. The charge between us tightens until it’s all I can do to stay still.
Her hands skate the contours of her hips, easing the denim down to her feet. She steps out of her jeans.
She moves again—unhurried, deliberate—and it’s impossible not to follow every motion, every shift of light over skin. The air in the barn feels too thick, too hot, and I swear I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.
When she touches herself, the sound that leaves my throat isn’t quite a breath and not quite a groan. It’s somewhere between wanting and warning.
She smiles, slow and sure, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. “Need some help with that?”
I’m swift to shed my clothes—T-shirt, boxer briefs, jeans—with an urgency that matches the pounding of my heart. Standing before her, I’m unabashedly aroused, my cock hard. I stroke languidly, eyes locked on hers. “What’s going through that beautiful head of yours?” I ask.
“Why don’t I show you?” she says, voice low, deliberate.
I stand before her, every muscle tight with anticipation. She drops to her knees before me. Oh fuck.
My pulse hammers as her gaze locks on mine—steady, unblinking, hungry.
Positioned between my legs, she cradles my balls gently with one hand while the other continues the rhythm I started, her grip firm. Every stroke elicits a response—a hitch in my breath, a flex of muscle—and I drink it in, but if I’m not careful I might embarrass myself.
“I’ve missed your cock,” she whispers.
Her tongue traces the crown of my dick, lavishing me with attention, each stroke thorough and deliberate.
“Do you like this?” she murmurs, taking me into her mouth. The slight nod and the tightening of my hand at the back of her head affirm my actions. My fingers thread through her hair, a silent guide and an attempt at restraint.
I groan deeply as she explores further, the vibrations of her moans reverberating along my length.
Each time I go deeper into her mouth, I encourage her, pushing ever so slightly, but always mindful, always attuned to her cues.
Her hand, slick with desire, matches the rhythm of her lips, that drives us both toward the cliffs edge.
She takes me to the back of her throat, swallowing around me, and my entire body shudders. My cock slips deeper, velvet steel encased by the warmth of her throat. My eyes close and my head lolls back, surrendering to the sensation. A silent plea for more.
And it’s intoxicating, the way my pleasure feeds her own. I watch as she lets her fingers drift down to the sheer fabric of her panties, slipping beneath to where she’s slick and wanting. The first touch sends a jolt through me, and she presses into herself, hungry for that cresting wave.
My fingers tap a gentle rhythm on her head, a silent cue that I’m close. But I’m not ready to let the moment end. Not yet. The determination to see me unravel under her touch stirs within me like wildfire. My eyes, clouded with lust, meet hers as I rasps out a warning.
“I’m going to come.”
She winks back at me and doubles her efforts, her hand feverishly working between her thighs.
With each bob of her head, she takes me deeper, reveling in the salty musk that signals my impending release.
My grip tightens ever so slightly on her breast, my thumb grazing her nipple, and it’s that subtle pinch that sends electric shocks straight to her core that echoes through her mouth to my cock.
“Tarryn…” I breathe her name like a prayer, and then the pulsing heat unfurls with the rhythmic throbbing as I come undone. It’s overwhelming, and I spill into her mouth.
Ripples of her own climax wash over me, and she rides it out. Her body quakes, pleasure cresting and crashing through me in waves. When the tremors finally subside, she collapses onto the blanket, gasping for air, her heart pounding against her ribcage.
I shake my head, the corner of my mouth turning up even as I struggle to catch my breath. “God, Tarryn, you’re amazing,” I tell her, my voice rough with awe. “Seeing you like that, so turned on… It’s just…wow.”
She laughs softly. “You’re not so bad yourself.” She props herself up on an elbow to look at me.
I reach out, tracing a line along her jaw with the pad of my thumb.
There’s something incredible about lying here together, skin still tingling, hearts still racing.
The soft light catches on her hair and the curve of her smile. Her skin is warm against mine, still humming from everything that just happened.
We don’t talk for a long count. I feel her heartbeat through my chest. She strokes my jaw with her thumb, and the touch lands harder than anything else in this room. We grin like kids who got away with something.
“That was reckless,” she says at last.
“That was honest.”
“Both.”
“Both,” I echo and roll to pull the blanket around her shoulders. She laughs when the hay scratches and then sighs when the wool goes warm. I gather our clothes and help her into her coat. She folds the blanket and puts it back where it was. We stand, and the floor tilts back into place.
“Now, we work,” she says.