Chapter 9 Ornamental Combat #3
“Your side looks like a department store display. No soul.”
“Better than your side looking like a five-year-old decorated it.”
His soft laugh rumbled through me. Our teasing gradually gave way to something more comfortable.
Away from prying eyes and local gossip, Maddox seemed to relax slightly, his responses becoming less guarded, his rare smiles less grudging.
“Christmas trees are supposed to look like five-year-olds decorated them.”
“Not in my family. We had professionals decorate them.”
“Oh.” Maddox turned off the camera since the tree was done. “What was it like for you, then? Holidays growing up in the Hayes household.”
The question caught me off guard.
We settled on opposite ends of the sofa, the fire crackling between us and the colorful, twinkling tree.
The storm howled outside, making the cabin feel like our own private world.
I’d found a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cabinet, and we were each nursing a small glass in between bites of cheese and crackers from a welcome pack I’d found in the fridge.
“Picture-perfect,” I replied honestly. Something about the firelight and whiskey, the intimacy of being trapped together, made my usual deflections feel hollow. “Actually, that’s a lie.”
Maddox raised an eyebrow but waited silently. His patience unnerved me more than questions would have.
“They were… curated,” I admitted. “Everything matched the color scheme my mother chose that year. Professional tree decorators and gift wrappers. Family photos in coordinating outfits, everyone smiling like we meant it. No messes. Nothing unexpected or unsanctioned.” I traced the rim of my glass.
“I made a paper chain for the tree when I was seven. My mother threw it away because it didn’t match. ”
“Oof.”
I shrugged. “My mother felt strongly that my father’s insurance firm had an image to maintain. I guess we were extensions of that image. Nothing genuine allowed to spoil the aesthetic.”
“I guess it led naturally into being a style influencer?”
The question hit closer to home than I wanted to admit. “Maybe. Maybe I wanted to control the image for once, instead of being controlled by it.” I took a sip of whiskey, feeling the burn down my throat. “What about your family? Before…”
I trailed off, not sure how to reference the loss of his parents. The photograph I’d seen on the internet when I’d looked up the local news story had been devastating.
Maddox’s eyes reflected the firelight as he gazed into his glass.
“The opposite of yours. Chaotic. Loud. My dad insisted on cutting our own tree every year and making sure Maya and I knew how to use the axe and haul it ourselves. Mom baked enough cookies to feed half the town. The Sullivan Hardware Christmas Open House was an annual event—kind of still is, though smaller now.”
“That sounds…” I searched for the right word. “Nice,” I said lamely. “Really nice.”
“It was.” His voice softened with memory. “After the accident, Maya and I tried to keep as many traditions going as we could. For her sake, mostly. She was fourteen when it happened.”
The weight of his responsibilities suddenly seemed so clear—not just the business but becoming a parent to his sister at a young age, preserving their family legacy while his own grief was still fresh.
“That can’t have been easy,” I said quietly.
He shrugged, a gesture that carried more history and grief than words could express. “You do what you have to.”
Without thinking, I shifted closer on the couch. Not touching, but close enough to feel his warmth. “Is that why you’re so resistant to my world? The content creation and ‘manufacturing moments,’ as you call it.”
His gaze lifted to meet mine. “Maybe. After losing my parents, the difference between what’s real and what’s just for show became very clear. Connections matter. Time with loved ones. Everything else is just…” He waved his hand dismissively.
“Fluff,” I finished for him.
“Your word, not mine,” he said, but a slight smile curved his lips.
“Not all manufactured moments are meaningless, you know.” I leaned forward slightly until our knees were almost touching. “Sometimes they’re just… opportunities. Creating the right conditions for real things to happen.”
Like this, I thought but didn’t say. Us, here, now.
The fire popped loudly, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind howled, a counterpoint to the silence stretching between us.
“Yesterday,” Maddox said suddenly, his voice low. “At the tree farm…”
My heart stuttered in my chest. “When you saved me from certain death by Christmas tree?”
“A bump on the head, maybe,” he said with an eye roll but then grew serious again. “After, though. When we were in the snow…”
I swallowed, setting my glass down carefully. “Yeah?”
“Would you have…” He paused, seeming to search for words, which was unusual for someone usually so direct. “If I hadn’t…”
Despite his incomplete question, I knew exactly what he was getting at. Would I have kissed him if he hadn’t pulled away? If the cold hadn’t interrupted us?
“Fuck yes,” I said, the truth easier in firelight than it would have been in daylight. “Would you have let me?”
Maddox’s eyes darkened, the gray shifting to something deeper. He set his glass down and shifted slightly closer on the sofa. “I’m still trying to figure that out,” he admitted.
“Anything I can do to help you with the figuring?” I murmured, hardly daring to breathe.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You could stop looking at me like that, for starters.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re imagining what I taste like.”
“What if I am, though?” I challenged softly. “Not looking at you this way would be the opposite of helpful, wouldn’t it? Inauthentic, really.”
He huffed. “Makes it damn hard to think straight.”
I licked my lips thoughtfully. “Maybe. But consider whether more thinking is really what you need.”
Maddox tilted his head. “You saying I’m overthinking?”
I moved a few inches closer. Close enough now that I could feel more body heat, see the slight tremor in his hands. “Your word,” I teased, throwing back his comment. “Not mine.”
“Shut up, Hayes,” he murmured, but there was no heat in it.
I sucked in a breath and held it. “Make me.”
Maddox hesitated, conflict visible in his expression, and his eyes searched mine.
Apparently, he found what he was looking for.
A heartbeat later, he closed the distance between us, one hand came up to curve around the back of my neck, and his lips found mine.
The first touch was hesitant, almost questioning.
His lips were softer than I’d imagined, warm and slightly chapped.
When I responded, leaning into him with a small sound of approval, the kiss deepened, becoming something hungry and certain.
His mouth was warm from the whiskey, his hand firm against my skin.
His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling slightly as he angled my head for better access. I gripped his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his flannel shirt, anchoring myself as the world went sideways.
I’d kissed plenty of men in my lifetime, but something about this felt different—as if we’d been building to this moment since our first meeting in the hardware store. All the banter, the tension, the resistance—it had led here, to this confluence of fire and snow and touch.
When we finally broke apart, both breathless, Maddox’s eyes were wide and glazed.
But just when I worried he might go back to overthinking, he lunged at me, kissing me more deeply this time.
His weight pressed me back into the sofa cushions, one hand caressing my jaw while the other gripped my hip.
The kiss was desperate, almost angry, like he was trying to prove something to himself or me.
I held him tighter, daring him to pull away. My fingers found the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath to touch warm skin. Maddox groaned into my mouth, and the sound vibrated through me, making me arch even closer.
The storm raged, piling snow against the windows, sealing us in our private world of firelight and heat. And I didn’t waste a second thinking about angles or lighting or hashtags. I was simply present, every sense attuned to the man clutching me like I was something surprising and necessary.
There was no doubt in my mind Maddox would second-guess this later and go right back to overthinking, but I’d be damned if I didn’t take as much of him as I could before he threw cold water on a fire this hot.
#SullivanSurrender #ProductPlacement #CityBoyMakeFire #FuckingFinallyWithTheLips #AThousandFanningWomen