Chapter 6
Riley stared at the ceiling like it had personally wronged her.
She had counted every knot in the wooden beams twice.
Listened to the wind gust past the window.
Watched the fairy lights strung outside cast shifting, frosted shadows across the snow-covered porch.
She had even tried one of those mindfulness techniques, inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for eight, but all it did was make her feel like she was hyperventilating into the silence of a billionaire’s guest bedroom.
She was not okay.
The reason for her current, wide-awake, hyper-aware state of torment was lying precisely seven inches to her right. Under the same duvet. In the same bed. Again.
Elizabeth Hale.
CEO. Ice queen. Untouchable goddess in a silk sleep shirt.
And Riley was sweating.
She shifted slightly under the covers, praying the mattress wouldn’t creak and reveal how restless she was.
Her pajama tank top clung to her back, and her flannel pants suddenly felt like thermal prison.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth lay perfectly still, on her back, one hand draped across her stomach, like she was starring in some minimalist winter fairytale.
Riley could smell her shampoo. Some fancy herbal-vanilla thing that made her want to bury her face in the pillow and scream.
Don’t touch her. Don’t think about her. Don’t wonder what she’s wearing under that shirt. Oh God, Riley. Get a grip.
The worst part? This wasn’t new.
They’d been doing this bed-sharing thing for three nights now. The first night had been awkward, Riley had built a dramatic pillow wall between them and then promptly kicked it down in her sleep. The second night had been tense in a quieter, pretend-this-is-normal kind of way. And now… this.
Now it was worse.
Because she knew Elizabeth laughed in her sleep sometimes, soft, like she didn’t mean to.
She knew she read in bed with glasses on, which she removed precisely twelve seconds before turning out the light.
She knew she always lay on her back for the first twenty minutes and then, without fail, rolled onto her side, facing Riley, like her body had made a decision her brain hadn’t signed off on.
And Riley had no defenses left.
This isn’t real. She’s not yours. You’re getting paid to be here, remember?
But the covers were too warm, and Elizabeth’s bare feet had brushed against hers under the duvet exactly four minutes ago, and Riley had felt it in her soul.
She turned onto her side, facing the window, gripping the edge of her pillow like it might stop her from blurting something humiliating.
The silence stretched. The snow tapped softly against the glass. The fairy lights outside twinkled in frosted patterns she couldn’t follow.
“Do you think the reindeer feel pressured to perform at Christmas?” she whispered suddenly into the dark. “Or is that just me?”
A beat. Then:
A soft huff of laughter. Quiet. Real.
Riley turned her head, stunned.
Elizabeth had her eyes closed, but there was the unmistakable trace of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Is this what keeps you up at night?”
“I mean,” Riley whispered, emboldened now, “the whole world is counting on them to deliver joy and whimsy and, like, flight physics? That’s a lot of pressure for one magical species.”
Elizabeth’s eyes opened, just barely. “You are the strangest person I’ve ever met.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t.”
Riley smiled into the dark. She could feel her heartbeat in her ears. Elizabeth wasn’t looking at her, not really, but she also wasn’t not looking at her. The glow from the hallway nightlight cast soft golden shadows across the planes of her face.
“You laughed,” Riley said quietly.
“I didn’t.”
“You did. A real one. Not the tight CEO one. That one had, like, texture.”
Elizabeth turned slightly, adjusting the pillow under her head. Her voice came softer this time. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” Riley murmured, before she could stop herself.
Silence again.
But this time, it was charged, brittle and shimmering and alive. Riley felt like if she moved an inch, the whole moment would crack open and spill something dangerous.
Elizabeth didn’t respond. She just… looked at her. And Riley, suddenly breathless, realized they were facing each other. Barely a foot apart.
Riley’s thoughts started spiraling, fast and panicked.
Don’t kiss her. Don’t think about kissing her. Don’t think about what her lips feel like or what her hand would feel like on your hip or how you’d probably combust if she touched you right now. This is not a romance novel. This is your actual life, and you’ll actually ruin it.
Elizabeth blinked slowly, then rolled gently onto her back again, pulling the covers up to her chest. “Good night, Riley.”
Riley stared at the ceiling. Her whole body felt like it was vibrating.
“Yeah,” she whispered into the dark. “Good night.”
But it was a lie. She wasn’t sleeping tonight. Not a chance.
The Hale family great room was a snow globe of old money charm. Crimson and forest-green tartan pillows on antique armchairs. A roaring fire in the massive stone hearth. A gold-accented drinks cart in the corner, where Riley was fairly certain the brandy was older than she was.
The whole room smelled like mulled wine and generational wealth.
And Riley was trying not to combust.
She perched on the edge of a brocade love seat beside Elizabeth, attempting to concentrate on the convoluted board game currently in progress, something with wooden tokens and arcane rules that probably hadn’t been updated since the Nixon administration.
Across from her, Julian and Margot exchanged smug glances every time Riley asked, “Wait, what does this card mean again?”
Elizabeth, on the other hand, leaned in close and murmured, “Ignore them. You’re doing fine,” right into her ear.
Riley wasn’t fine. Not even close.
Because Elizabeth’s hand was resting on the back of her neck now, the pad of her thumb slowly brushing just under the edge of Riley’s hairline. It was probably meant to look affectionate. Reassuring. Like something a long-time girlfriend would do without thinking.
But Riley could barely remember how to hold her cards.
She managed to bluff her way through the next round, getting her team a surprising number of points, and then, as if possessed by some kind of ancient competitive spirit, threw herself into the next game with actual fire.
“Charades,” announced Annette Hale, with the air of a queen declaring war. “Elizabeth, you’re first. Riley, dear, you’re on her team.”
“May God help us all,” Riley muttered, but she stood and joined Elizabeth in front of the marble fireplace.
The next thirty minutes were a chaotic blur.
Elizabeth acted out Pride and Prejudice by miming a marriage proposal and then slapping herself across the face. Riley guessed it on the first try.
Riley acted out The Nutcracker with such unhinged enthusiasm she nearly took out a lamp. Elizabeth, breathless from laughing, got it right anyway.
Everyone else watched them with varying degrees of suspicion, amusement, and barely disguised envy.
Elizabeth was smiling. Really smiling. And Riley was drunk on it.
It wasn’t until the fourth game, something with word associations and a buzzer that terrified Riley every time it buzzed, that she realized how close they were sitting again.
Elizabeth had her arm along the back of the sofa, fingers lightly brushing Riley’s shoulder.
Her knee bumped against Riley’s every time she shifted.
It was too much. Not enough. Impossible.
And then, someone shouted, “Mistletoe!”
The room stilled.
Riley turned, and there was Margot, holding a sprig of mistletoe over their heads like it was a royal decree.
All eyes were on them. The room was too warm. Riley’s heart was hammering.
“Tradition,” Julian said smoothly, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.
Elizabeth’s expression didn’t change. She simply looked at Riley, steady and unreadable, then leaned in and pressed her mouth to hers.
Just a kiss.
It was supposed to be just a kiss.
And it was. Technically.
Closed mouths. A light touch. Barely two seconds long.
But something in it lingered, just a breath longer than it needed to.
Elizabeth’s hand had curled around Riley’s waist, anchoring her. Their noses brushed as they pulled apart.
And Riley, God help her, felt like she was falling.
She smiled, barely. Played it cool. Let out a soft laugh and said something dumb like, “Guess I’m officially indoctrinated now,” which made Margot roll her eyes and retreat.
The conversation resumed. The games continued. The fire crackled.
But Riley was no longer in her body.
She could still feel Elizabeth’s lips. The weight of that kiss haunted her like a secret.
Later, she found herself standing by the drinks cart, swirling cider she wasn’t drinking, trying to calm the chaos inside her chest.
Elizabeth appeared at her side, as if summoned. “You handled that well.”
“The kiss?”
“No, the word game. But yes, that too.”
Riley snorted softly. “You have the driest sense of humor for someone who just kissed me in front of their entire family.”
Elizabeth didn’t look at her. “You’re doing better than I thought you would.”
“What does that mean?”
Elizabeth finally met her eyes. “It means you’re good at pretending. That’s all.”
Riley nodded slowly. “Right. Pretending.”
But she couldn’t shake the look on Elizabeth’s face when they kissed. Or the way her fingers had gripped Riley’s waist like she didn’t want to let go.
They returned to the game table. More puzzles. More laughter. More of Elizabeth’s hand skimming the small of Riley’s back every time she passed behind her chair.
And Riley couldn’t stop thinking:
If this is pretending, I don’t want to know what real feels like.
Snow beat softly against the windows like a lullaby made of ice. Somewhere downstairs, the staff had finally gone to bed. The house was quiet, lavish, sleeping, still.