Chapter 12
Twelve
The power is on by the time I wake up the next morning.
When I walk to the window and look outside, the sky is a brilliant blue, the sun sparkling as it reflects off the newly fallen snow.
For a split second, I wonder if last night was some sort of glorious fever dream.
But the burned-down embers of the fire Noah built are right there in the hearth. He was here. We kissed.
And it was incredible.
I lift a hand to my lips, the memory of his touch still fresh enough to start a low fire in my belly. I need to call Evie. Tell her what happened. But I’m guessing Noah is already up, which means I’d rather get downstairs as quickly as possible.
As amazing as last night was, it’s hard not to sense the looming countdown clock ticking down the moments to when I’m supposed to leave.
I take a quick shower and get dressed, careful of my still tender shoulder, then head downstairs where I find Noah in the kitchen, warm coffee waiting and a stack of waffles on the counter.
Noah is wearing an apron, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he’s wearing glasses, something I haven’t seen on him until right now.
He smiles when he sees me step into the kitchen, and he looks utterly and completely adorable.
It’s hard to believe the scowly man who rescued me at the beginning of the week is the same guy.
“Good morning,” he says. He motions toward my shoulder with the spatula he’s holding. “How’s it feeling?”
“A little sore,” I say. “But still functional.”
I stand awkwardly in the doorway, not sure how to behave in this new normal. I feel an impulse to walk over and wrap my arms around Noah, kiss him hello, but…is that what he wants too? Is that something you do the morning after a first kiss?
“I never did get you a sling,” Noah says. “I can if you think you need one.”
“I think I’m okay. I’m trying to be careful.”
He eyes me, like his doctor brain is dubious that I’ll be as careful as I should be, but he must decide not to press the point because he lets the topic go. He gestures to the waffles. “I don’t suppose you want a waffle? Or four?”
I slip onto a barstool across from him. “I’d love a waffle. Not sure about four.”
“I probably should have halved the recipe. But I didn’t really think about it until I’d already started. My mom says I can freeze these though.”
My heart squeezes the tiniest bit. “You called your mom about waffles? In Italy?”
“She’s only six hours ahead,” he says with an easy shrug. “It was good to talk to her.”
There is a lightness about Noah that feels new. He’s relaxed, his words coming as easily as they did last night. I can’t help but hope the change has something to do with me, at least in small part. But more than that, I hope that talking things out helped him process a little of how he’s feeling.
Noah slides a waffle onto my plate, then moves the butter dish and a ceramic syrup jar close enough for me to reach. “Want coffee?”
I nod, and he makes quick work of pouring me a mug, following my milk and sugar instructions until it’s in my hands, warm and perfectly delicious.
“When did the power turn back on?” I ask.
“Around six,” he says. “The high is close to fifty today, so most of the snow will probably melt by tomorrow.”
I take a long sip of my coffee, keenly aware that after the most intense makeout of my life, Noah and I are sitting here talking about the weather like there’s nothing else to say. But everything I want to say feels big. Monumental.
Can I really look at him over morning coffee and just casually drop that after last night, I’m pretty sure he’s ruined kissing for every other man on the planet? It’s him or no one. I can’t go back.
“I should check in with the Petersons and make sure they’re still good to come,” I say.
Noah nods. “I’ll get the farm road cleared today, and I expect the county will get the highway plowed. If the Petersons need any reassurance, tell them I really do think the roads will be fine.”
“Good. Perfect.” My hand is trembling as I pick up my fork, which is completely ridiculous. But Noah in glasses, feeding me, making me coffee. It’s too much for my heart. I can hardly breathe for the weight of my longing. I want this—him—like I’ve never wanted anything before.
I take a steadying breath, but when I try to cut my waffle, my hand slips, and a syrup-covered chunk goes flying across the counter and lands next to Noah’s plate. My face flushes hot as he grins, giving me a sideways glance. “You okay over there?”
I clear my throat. “Totally fine.”
I spear the runaway waffle and pop it into my mouth. But when I go to cut a second bite, I drop the knife and it bumps against the table, then clatters onto the floor.
I close my eyes as Noah starts to chuckle.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I say as I lift my hands to cover my face, but I can’t blame him. I’m laughing at myself. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He stands and reaches for my knife, his free hand grazing across my shoulders as he moves into the kitchen and drops the offending utensil into the sink. He grabs a clean one from the drawer and slides it across the counter to me before returning to his seat.
“Thank you.” I take the knife and set it next to my plate. “I think I’m just nervous.”
“Why?” he asks, and I look over at him. His expression is open and warm, making it easy to respond.
“Because I like you so much.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. “You shouldn’t be nervous.”
“No? Why not?”
He grins, then leans forward and presses a lingering kiss to my lips. He tastes like coffee and maple syrup. “Because I like you so much,” he says.
The kiss goes a long way to ease my nerves, and I manage to make it through the rest of breakfast without dropping anything else. By the time we’re done doing the dishes, I’m feeling pretty good.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.
For now, I’m just going to enjoy the holiday. Enjoy Noah.
And we do enjoy it.
Well, first we both have to do a little bit of work. While he plows the main farm road—a tractor with a snowplow attachment makes it relatively easy work—I read through Olivia’s final checklist of Peterson family reunion preparations.
After I call the Petersons to make sure the weather hasn’t disrupted their plans, I check in with the catering staff and give them a final headcount. Then I rearrange the tables in the dining room and put together Christmas centerpieces for each one.
Since several of the Peterson grandchildren are bringing significant others to the reunion, the Peterson grandmother has made a particular request that mistletoe hang from every door frame.
There’s a big box of fake mistletoe in the storage closet, so I tie together several bunches, then scoot a chair into the closest doorway.
With the largest bunch in one hand and a thumbtack in the other, I climb onto the chair and reach up, hesitating when a dull ache radiates through my shoulder. I drop my arms again—Noah will have to do this for me—but then the front door opens, and the man himself steps inside.
His eyes widen when he sees me on the chair. “Seriously?” he says as he strides toward me.
“What?” I say. “I need to hang the mistletoe.”
“You need to stay on the ground where you can’t hurt yourself again.” He moves his hands to my waist and gently lifts me, lowering me down. I don’t mind that even when I’m safely on the floor, he keeps his hands on me, his fingers encircling my waist.
“You’re right,” I say. “I realized as much when I tried to reach over my head.” I lift the mistletoe. “Hang it for me?”
He leans down and kisses me. “You shouldn’t be lifting your arms, but I’m more concerned you were standing on a chair. With the tenderness in your shoulder, you’re more susceptible to repeat injury.” He gives my hips a little squeeze. “Please. Stay on the ground for me.”
His concern is both endearing and adorable.
“Fine,” I say. “But that means you can’t leave again. I have six of these I need to hang up.”
He tugs me closer, one hand wrapping around my back while the other takes the mistletoe out of my hand. “Does that mean I get to kiss you under all six?”
I grin. “You don’t need mistletoe to kiss me.”
“Good thing,” he says. Then his mouth takes mine one more time.
Late the following afternoon, the Petersons arrive at Stonebrook in a caravan of minivans and SUVs.
Catering staff have been in and out all day, hauling food from the catering kitchen down by the restaurant up to the farmhouse.
The food smells delicious, Christmas carols are playing through the house, and I’ve got to say, the decorations really do look on point.
Several of the Petersons mention the gorgeous Christmas tree as they walk into the main room, and I make a mental note to relay their praise to Noah.
He’s out at the goat barn now, making the rounds, tending to the animals like he does every night, but I’m guessing he’ll linger a little longer tonight, if only to avoid the crowd.
As far as I can tell, there are four generations of Petersons at the party, from the oldest who has to be in her nineties, all the way down to the youngest who is just shy of three months old.
They are a gregarious group, boisterous and happy and clearly thrilled to be together.
After welcoming them all and giving them a quick rundown of how their evening will go—cocktails and appetizers, then dinner and dessert whenever they’re ready—I sneak into the kitchen to fix myself a small plate from the tray of extras the catering staff set out for Noah and me.
Noah surprises me, stepping up behind me and slipping his hands around my waist. “Hi,” he whispers, voice close to my ear. “You look beautiful.”
I lean into him, loving the feel of his warm chest at my back. “Do I?” I’ve changed clothes since he last saw me, putting on a red wrap dress that Evie made me buy the last time we went shopping together because, according to her, it complements my wavy brown hair and makes my boobs look amazing.