Chapter 2
Chapter Two
LIAM
The door creaks open, and a wave of cold air rushes out of Ava’s parent’s house like it’s been holding its breath for weeks. She flicks the switch, but the overhead light only sputters, then dies.
“Great,” she mutters. “No heat. No lights. No parents. Perfect welcome home.”
I step in behind her, the air so icy it fogs when I exhale. “When’s the last time your parents were here?”
“Three days ago, maybe?” She rubs her hands up and down her arms, shivering. “They didn’t say anything about the heat not working.”
I check the thermostat. Dead. “Pipes are probably frozen. You’ll be lucky if the place doesn’t burst overnight.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” I gesture toward her breath puffing in the air. “You can’t stay here, Ava. It’s an icebox.”
She opens her mouth to argue and I can practically hear the stubborn I’ll be fine gearing up, but I cut her off before she can dig in. “Come on,” I nudge her toward the door. “My place is warm. You can stay with me.”
She narrows her eyes at me, like I’m pulling one over on her. “Just like that? No gloating about how the big-city girl can’t hack it back home?”
I grin, because she knows me too well. “Oh, I’m absolutely going to gloat. Probably for the rest of your life. But I’m also not letting you freeze to death your first night back.”
Her sigh fogs in the cold, but she finally huffs, “Fine,” and stomps past me, muttering something about getting herself into this mess.
By the time we drive the two miles to the house I bought last year and haul her bag across the snowy path up to my front door, the tips of her ears are red, and she’s muttering curses under her breath.
I nudge the door open with my shoulder, and warm air immediately spills out.
The fire I started earlier crackles in the stone hearth, throwing orange light across the wood floors.
“You have a beautiful home, Liam, and you actually remembered to light a fire,” she says, peeling off her gloves.
“Thanks. I have my moments.” I hang my coat by the door and grin at her. “Want cocoa? Or are you too sophisticated now for powdered mix and mini marshmallows?”
Her eyes narrow, but her lips twitch. “I’ll never be too sophisticated for marshmallows. But if you put whipped cream and sprinkles on top, I’m walking back to Boston.”
“So demanding,” I chuckle, moving into the kitchen.
While I heat milk in a dented pot, I watch her from the corner of my eye.
She drifts toward the fireplace, crouching down in front of it.
Her fingers hover out toward the flames, and for just a second, she looks like the girl I used to know—the one who believed winter nights could fix everything if you had enough cocoa and a blanket fort.
When I set the mugs on the coffee table she joins me on the couch, curling up cross-legged with hers cradled between her hands.
She takes a sip and lets out this little hum, low and pleased, and I nearly choke on mine.
I’ve obviously been travelling too much if something like that makes my pulse race.
“So,” she says finally, glancing at me over the rim of her mug. “What’s the deal with this Mistletoe Match thing I heard about?”
I raise a brow. “Already sniffed out the town gossip?”
“It’s unavoidable,” she says dryly. “I got cornered on the train by Stephanie McAllister. She warned me her mom was going to try to recruit me before I even sat down on the train.”
“Figures,” I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s the same as always. Holiday games, couple sign-ups, prize money. Silly but harmless.”
“Are you going to enter?”
“I want to,” he shrugs.
“With who?”
“No one yet,” I admit. “I was holding out for a good partner.”
Her mouth curves when I raise my brows, but she shakes her head like she can’t believe me. “Unbelievable. Same old Liam Carter… turning life into a game.”
I lean back, let my arm drape over the couch behind her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her. “And you still hate playing. Which is a shame, because I think we’d make a pretty unbeatable team.”
“Us?”
“Yes, us.”
She shakes her head like it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard before going quiet, staring into her mug, and for a beat I let myself imagine she’s not avoiding the idea—she’s considering it.
An hour later, the fire burns steady, painting the room in warm flickers, and for a while we sip cocoa and listen to the quiet settle around us.
Outside, snow falls against the windows in lazy drifts.
Inside, it’s so still I can hear the little sounds she makes when she takes a drink—the soft hum, the way she exhales after each sip like the heat is sinking all the way through her.
God, I’ve missed this. Missed her.
Eventually, she sets her mug aside and tucks her legs under a blanket I tossed over the couch. Her hair spills forward as she leans back, face turned toward the fire, eyes half-lidded. She looks…content. Like maybe coming home wasn’t the worst thing to happen after all.
“Remember when we used to camp out in the living room at your house?” I ask, picking at a piece of lint on the blanket.
Her eyes flick open, hazy with memory. “Sleeping bags by the fire. We’d swear we’d stay up all night, and then you’d pass out first.”
“Lies,” I protest. “It was always you who couldn’t stay up past midnight.”
She smiles, and it knocks me flat. “You did, Liam. Every time. I’d stay awake just long enough to hear you snore.”
“Rude,” I mutter, but I’m grinning, because I love that she remembers.
The silence after stretches easy, comfortable. She shifts a little closer under the blanket, maybe without realizing it, her shoulder brushing mine. The contact is light, casual, but I feel it everywhere for some strange reason.
I clear my throat, trying not to spook her. “You can take my bedroom. I’ll crash out here.”
Her head jerks toward me. “Liam, this is your house. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”
“You’re not kicking me out. I’m offering.”
She hesitates, chewing on her lip, then sighs. “Fine. But just this once.”
“Sure,” I say, already knowing I’ll let her win every argument that keeps her here.
She pushes up, stretching her arms overhead. “God, I’m wiped.”
I grab her bag from where I dropped it earlier and carry it into the bedroom. She trails behind me, hovering in the doorway as I set it by the dresser, then step back, giving her space.
When I glance at her again, her expression has softened. A little tired, a little vulnerable. “Thanks, Liam.”
Two words, and my chest feels too tight. I shove my hands in my pockets trying to keep things casual. “Anytime, Ava.”
She ducks into the room, and I force myself to turn away before I say something I can’t take back. Back on the couch, I settle under a blanket, the fire dimming low, but sleep doesn’t come easy. Not with her so close, not with her breathing filling the same walls again.
For the first time in years, Christmas doesn’t feel like something to get through. It feels like the beginning of something I can’t put my finger on. And I’m excited.