Chapter 10
The kitchen was already warm when Elizabeth stepped inside, though it had nothing to do with her mood.
The air smelled of butter, coffee, and sizzling bacon.
The staff moved like clockwork, aprons crisp, hair pulled back, each one intent on chopping, whisking, or arranging trays of fruit for the long farmhouse table.
Elizabeth stood at the far counter, phone in one hand, a delicate porcelain teacup in the other.
She’d been up since before dawn, skimming financial reports, answering emails from London, and trying very hard not to think about the look on Riley’s face the night before when she’d left her in that dying firelight.
She could feel the faint ache behind her eyes, the kind that came from too little sleep and too much…
everything. So she’d done what she always did: polished the armor.
Immaculate black slacks, cream silk blouse, hair swept into a smooth twist at the nape of her neck.
Neutral lipstick, just enough to look alive. Controlled. Unshakable.
The door swung open.
Riley stepped in, hair slightly tousled, cheeks flushed from either the cold or the gauntlet of relatives already up for breakfast. She wore a soft sweater and jeans, mug of coffee in her hand, and looked like someone who’d been up half the night thinking things she couldn’t quite say.
Elizabeth’s grip on her teacup tightened.
“Morning,” Riley said, her voice pitched low, as if unsure whether this was neutral ground or enemy territory.
“Good morning,” Elizabeth replied, perfectly even, eyes flicking back to her phone. She scrolled to an email that didn’t matter, just to have somewhere else to look.
Riley crossed to the island, leaned a hip against it. “You’re up early.”
“I always am.” Elizabeth took a sip of tea. “Time zones wait for no one.”
The silence that followed wasn’t quite comfortable. Staff bustled around them, the faint clatter of utensils filling the space where something else might have lived. Riley took another sip of coffee, then set it down a little too firmly on the counter.
“You know,” she said lightly, “most people ease into holiday mornings. Pajamas, cinnamon rolls, lazy conversations. You should try it sometime.”
Elizabeth allowed herself the faintest smile, the kind she gave business acquaintances who made a passable joke. “I find efficiency more restful than idleness.”
“Right.” Riley’s lips pressed into a thin line. She was studying Elizabeth now, the way she did when she was trying to read what was behind the glass.
Elizabeth set down her teacup and closed her phone, letting it rest on the counter. “I appreciate your concern for my leisure time,” she said, tone as smooth as polished marble, “but I assure you, I’m perfectly fine.”
“Of course you are,” Riley said, but there was an edge to it.
She straightened, picked up her coffee again, and for a moment Elizabeth thought she might say something reckless, like she had under the fairy-lit trees.
But instead, Riley just smiled, that infuriating half-smile that made Elizabeth feel both seen and exposed.
“Well,” Riley said, backing toward the door, “I’ll leave you to your efficiency, then.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
Riley’s eyes lingered on her for one last moment, searching, measuring, and then she turned and left.
The door swung shut, cutting off the faint sounds of her footsteps on the hall’s old wooden floor.
Elizabeth exhaled, long and quiet. She could still feel the ghost of Riley’s nearness, the way her voice last night had dipped low when she said, I don’t need you to be perfect. I just need you to be honest.
Honesty was dangerous. Honesty meant stepping out from behind the lines she’d drawn for herself years ago.
So she picked up her phone again, sipped her tea, and let the steam fog her vision until she could see only the familiar shape of control.
The ballroom was unrecognizable.
Elizabeth had gone all in, garlands looped in swooping arcs from the vaulted ceiling, fairy lights twinkling in the dim like a thousand suspended stars, and three towering Christmas trees flanking the stage at the far end.
The scent of pine and cinnamon drifted through the air, mingling with the rich sweetness of cocoa from the refreshment tables.
Kids darted between clusters of volunteers with the kind of sugar-fueled energy only December could bring, their laughter rising above the mellow background hum of Bing Crosby crooning from a set of vintage speakers.
Riley trailed Elizabeth in through the double doors, shoving her hands into her coat pockets against the lingering bite of cold.
She’d been here for days now, long enough to know that events like this were less about the holiday spirit and more about social optics for the Hale family.
Still… it was hard not to be swept up in it.
Elizabeth was already sliding into hostess mode, elegant navy coat, black boots polished to a mirror sheen, hair tucked neatly behind one ear as she greeted the mayor, a few local business owners, and a camera crew from the regional paper.
Riley hung back, scanning the long tables laden with donated toys, rolls of festive paper, ribbons, and tags.
Their deal, the one she’d agreed to in a weak moment of poor judgment, meant playing the role of doting partner at events like this. Which was why, after ten minutes of polite mingling, Elizabeth reappeared at her side, hand light at the small of Riley’s back.
“Smile,” she murmured without turning her head.
Riley tilted her lips upward, the kind of grin that was meant for show but somehow didn’t feel as fake as it should.
Maybe it was the warm press of Elizabeth’s palm, maybe the glittering trees, maybe the hum of holiday cheer thick in the air.
She made polite conversation with a trio of retirees manning the cocoa station, joked with a teenager trying to fashion an elaborate bow for a skateboard, even helped a couple of kids attach name tags to their gifts.
And Elizabeth watched her.
Not in the distant, clinical way she sometimes did, like she was cataloging data points, but with something closer to curiosity. The frost in her gaze seemed thinner here, as if the laughter around them seeped in despite her best efforts.
The moment that broke through entirely came courtesy of a small boy with a lisp and an oversized sweater. He stood in front of Riley, clutching a stuffed penguin in one hand and staring up at her with solemn brown eyes.
“Are you and Lizzie in love?” he asked, blunt as a hammer. “You look like you’re in love.”
Riley’s mouth opened and closed. “I, uh…” She glanced toward Elizabeth like a student begging the teacher for rescue.
Elizabeth stepped forward, smooth as glass. “We’re figuring it out,” she said, her voice low but carrying enough warmth to wrap around the boy like a blanket.
It wasn’t a line meant for the press. It wasn’t for appearances. It sounded, dangerously, like she meant it.
The boy nodded once, satisfied, and scampered off toward the cocoa. Riley was still rooted to the spot, pulse ticking faster than she wanted to admit.
She turned back to the tables, grateful for something to do, and that’s when she saw it, a small, square tag tied to the handle of a bright red gift bag. In childish block letters, it read: For the kid who always feels left out.
Her fingers brushed the paper, the words burning into her chest. She could see, clear as glass, her own eight-year-old self at the end of a cafeteria table, watching the other kids trade glittering boxes, knowing there was nothing for her.
She swallowed hard, blinking back the sudden sting in her eyes.
“Riley?”
Elizabeth’s voice was softer than usual, missing that precise edge she carried like armor. When Riley looked up, she saw the other woman watching her with the kind of focus that could cut through anything else in the room.
“Just…” Riley gestured vaguely toward the tag, unable to form a proper explanation.
Elizabeth’s gaze didn’t waver. “I fund this charity every year because I need to believe I can do something good. Something real.” Her voice hitched ever so slightly on the last word, like it cost her to say it.
That cracked something in Riley, more than she wanted to admit. She reached out, almost without thinking, and brushed the back of her fingers against Elizabeth’s hand where it rested against her side.
Elizabeth didn’t pull away.
They stayed there for a moment, silent, close, a breath away from something they’d both been dodging. The warmth of Elizabeth’s skin under Riley’s fingertips felt almost illicit, more dangerous than any staged kiss for the cameras.
From across the room came a burst of children’s laughter, loud and bright, breaking the spell. Elizabeth eased back first, her expression smoothing over like a lake freezing solid.
“Come on,” she said, quieter now, but not cold. “We’ve got more gifts to give away.”
Riley let her hand fall, but the heat of that moment clung to her as they stepped back into the glittering chaos.
The fire in the bedroom crackled low, sending shadows crawling up the stone hearth.
The rest of the house hummed faintly with post-event noise, footsteps in the halls, the muffled clink of glasses in the kitchen preparing for the evening’s meal, but here, the world felt quieter.
Quieter than she liked. Quieter than was safe.
Elizabeth sat on the sofa by the fire, the wool throw wrapped neatly around her shoulders.
She had changed out of the outfit from the toy drive into a soft charcoal sweater and silk trousers, clothes appropriate for the casual dinner the family would have tonight but that still managed to feel like armor.