Chapter 10
Lucy
The town square glows with Christmas lights, and I've never been so aware of how far apart Ryder and I are standing.
He's across the gazebo, talking to Mr. Peterson about the winter festival committee's budget.
I'm helping Mrs. Henderson arrange cookies on a platter, pretending I'm not tracking his every movement in my peripheral vision.
We've gotten good at this. The casual distance.
The polite nods when we pass. The careful choreography of two people pretending they haven't memorized the taste of each other's skin.
"More gingerbread on this side, dear," Mrs. Henderson says, and I nod, moving cookies I don't see.
Ryder's laugh carries across the square. My stomach flips.
I steal a glance. He's looking at me over Mr. Peterson's shoulder, and the heat in his eyes makes my breath catch. Then Mr. Peterson turns, and Ryder's expression smooths into polite interest, nodding along to whatever story the older man is telling.
Everything changed at the cabin. Then he saved the charity hockey game, then he saved my shop, and I'm still processing what it means that he'd do that for me. These stolen moments feel like torture when we have to pretend in public.
"I need more cocoa from the kitchen," I say. Mrs. Henderson waves me off, already distracted by someone asking about the recipe.
I slip through the crowd toward the community center. The kitchen is blessedly empty, quiet compared to the celebration outside. I lean against the counter, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
The door opens.
"You shouldn't be here," I say without turning around. I'd know those footsteps anywhere.
"Neither should you." Ryder's voice is low, amused. "Yet here we both are."
I turn. He's leaning against the door, arms crossed, that crooked smile playing at his lips. The overhead fluorescent light should make him look washed out. Instead, it just highlights the sharp line of his jaw, the way his sweater pulls across his shoulders.
"Someone might notice we're both gone," I manage.
"Let them." He pushes off the door, crossing to me in three strides. "I've been watching you all night. Smiling at everyone but me. Laughing at jokes that aren't funny. Staying on the opposite side of the room like we're strangers."
"We agreed—"
"I know what we agreed." His hand finds my hip, thumb tracing small circles that make me forget why staying apart seemed important. "Doesn't mean I like it."
I should step back. Someone could walk in any second. But his other hand cups my face, and I'm leaning into his touch before I can stop myself.
Something flickers in his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or fear. Then his mouth is on mine, stealing thoughts and breath and reason. The kiss tastes like desperation, like borrowed time, like all the words we can't say in public.
Footsteps echo in the hallway.
We break apart. Ryder moves to the sink, running water like he's washing his hands. I grab a box of cocoa mix, clutching it to my chest as the door swings open.
Natalie stops, eyes darting between us. "Oh. Hi."
"Hey." My voice only shakes a little. "Just grabbing more cocoa."
"Right." She doesn't move. "Ryder, Jim was looking for you. Something about the bonfire permits?"
"On it." He dries his hands, walks past me without a glance. But his fingers brush mine as he takes the towel, so quick anyone else would miss it.
I feel it everywhere.
Natalie waits until his footsteps fade. "You two are not as subtle as you think."
My heart stops. "I don't—"
"Relax." She pulls mugs from the cabinet. "I'm not going to say anything. But Lucy? You should tell Connor before he figures it out himself. Trust me."
She leaves me standing there, clutching cocoa mix, my pulse hammering in my throat.
I make it through the rest of the celebration on autopilot.
Smile at the right moments. Laugh at the right jokes.
Stay far enough away from Ryder that no one could possibly suspect.
The celebration ends around ten. We all help clean up—Connor and Ryder carrying tables, me and Natalie collecting trash.
Playing our roles. Pretending everything is normal.
"I'll drop these off at the community center," Connor says as we pack the last box into his truck. "You two head back. Tell Dad I'll be there in twenty."
Ryder nods. "Will do."
I turn away before Connor can see my face.
The house is quiet when we get back. Dad's already in his room, light off. Emma and Maisie went to bed an hour ago. Ryder and I exchange a brief glance in the hallway before heading to our separate rooms, maintaining the fiction.
But I don't go to sleep.
I wait until I hear Connor's bedroom door close. Until Maisie's settled in her room. Until the house falls quiet except for the furnace humming and my heart pounding.
Then I slip through the bathroom, knock softly on his door.
He opens it immediately. Like he was waiting.
"Hi," I whisper.
His hand closes around my wrist, tugging me inside. The door clicks shut, and then I'm pressed against it, his mouth on mine, hands in my hair. This kiss is different from the one in the kitchen. Deeper. More honest. Like we can finally stop pretending.
"Missed you," he murmurs against my lips.
"You just saw me."
"Too long."
I laugh, and he swallows the sound, kissing me until I'm dizzy. Until the only thing keeping me upright is him, his body warm and solid against mine.
When we finally break apart, I notice the wrapped presents on his desk.
"Is one of those mine?"
"Maybe." He's smiling, that rare full smile that transforms his whole face. "Want to do gifts now?"
"It's almost midnight. Technically Christmas Eve."
"Close enough."
He hands me a flat package wrapped in silver paper. I settle on the edge of his bed, suddenly nervous. I've never been good at receiving gifts. Never know what my face should do.
"Open it," Ryder says, sitting beside me.
The paper tears easily. Inside is a book—old, leather-bound, the spine soft with age. I recognize it immediately.
"Pride and Prejudice?" I breathe.
"First edition. Well, first American edition." He's watching me carefully. "You told me once it was your favorite. That you read it every year."
I did tell him that. Years ago, probably. I am shocked that he remembered this.
I open the cover. Inside, in his slanted handwriting: For Lucy—who makes anywhere feel like home. R
My vision blurs. "Ryder, this is—I can't—"
"There's more." He pulls a small, flat box from his pocket.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a key.
"That's to my apartment in Boston." His voice is quiet. Careful. "I want you to have it. For when you visit. Or... whenever you want. However long you want."
I stare at the key. It's just metal—brass, slightly tarnished, ordinary. But what it represents makes my chest tight.
He's giving me access. Permission. A place in his life beyond Pine Hollow.
"You mean it?" I whisper.
"Every word." He takes my hand, thumb tracing my knuckles. "I know I'm leaving next week. I know this is complicated. But Lucy, I don't want this to end. I want to figure out how to make this work. Long distance, visits, whatever it takes. I want you in my life."
The shop. The loan. The payment plan we hammered out yesterday so I could keep my pride and my dream. He's already proving he means it.
I set the book and key carefully on the nightstand. My hands are shaking.
"Your turn," I manage.
I retrieve the album I stashed in my room earlier, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Simple. Nothing fancy. I hand it to him, heart in my throat.
He unwraps it slowly. Stops when he sees the cover—brown leather, embossed with his initials.
"Lucy..."
"Open it."
He does.
The first page is a photo from years ago—him and Connor in their hockey jerseys, arms slung around each other, gap-toothed grins. College days, when everything was simpler.
He turns the page. Another photo: him and Maisie building a snowman, her tiny hands in his large ones. Then him and Connor at Thanksgiving, loading plates. Him at the kitchen table with Dad, playing chess. Him and Emma, decorating Christmas cookies, his expression soft in a way I rarely see.
Page after page of proof. Of the family he chose. The life he built here, even as he prepared to leave it.
The second-to-last page is a photo I took last week: Ryder and Maisie reading by the fire, her tucked against his side, both absorbed in the story.
He traces the image with one finger. Doesn't speak.
The final page is a recent photo of us at the Christmas market. Natalie took it when we weren't looking—Ryder's arm around my shoulders, me laughing at something he said, both of us caught in a moment of unguarded happiness.
Proof that we existed. Together. That this was real.
"You made this." His voice is rough. "You made this for me."
"I wanted you to have something to remember us by. All of us. When you're in Boston and it gets lonely." I'm babbling now, nervous. "I know it's not much compared to a first edition book, but—"
He kisses me. Hard and desperate and grateful. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright.
"No one has ever given me something like this." He flips back through the pages, drinking in every photo. "No one has ever... Lucy, this is the best gift I've ever received."
"Really?"
"Really." He sets the album beside my book, then pulls me into his lap, arms tight around me. "Thank you. For making me part of your family. For this."
I bury my face in his neck. He smells like pine and winter and home.
We sit like that for a long time, wrapped around each other, the weight of leaving pressing down on both of us. His hand strokes my back in slow, soothing circles. I focus on his heartbeat, steady against my cheek.
"I love you," I whisper.
The words fall into the space between us like stones into water.
I feel him freeze. Every muscle in his body going rigid. The hand on my back stops moving.
The silence stretches. One breath. Two. Three.
Oh.
Oh no.