Chapter 19 Julian
We’re out on the water until late afternoon. This is the Bahamas to me—salt on our skin, the sun lingering, warm on our shoulders, the waves crashing like a lullaby.
Once we’re back on dry land, Harper walks just ahead of me, barefoot, shoes dangling from her fingers, her hair loose and wind tossed. She pauses at the villa terrace, turning back toward the ocean.
“Is it always like this?” she asks.
“Like what?”
She gestures toward the horizon, the sun dipping low. “Like one long dream you never get tired of.”
“It is,” I say. “But most people stop noticing.”
Her eyes come back to me. “Have you?”
“I think I did,” I admit. “For quite a long time, actually.”
“But not anymore?”
“Now I have you pointing it out again.” And I’m so happy about that.
Inside the villa, she moves less cautiously. She experiences every little detail. Most people in my world filter everything out or fake their reactions. Harper does neither.
“You’re thinking,” she says.
“Always.”
“That a good thing?”
“Usually.”
She studies me. “That didn’t sound convincing.”
“It depends what I’m thinking about.” I hold her gaze. “I’m deciding if I’ve been underutilizing this place… or just looking at it the wrong way.”
“Where are you landing?”
“I think it’s the latter.”
She doesn’t answer but rather files it away, the way she does everything.
“Come here.” I usher her to the patio area. The table is set at the edge overlooking the ocean. It’s my favorite view in this place.
“Julian…,” she says. “This is perfect.”
“It’s just dinner,” I say.
She laughs softly. “You say that like this is normal.”
“Come on, let’s sit and eat. I’m starving and you must be too.”
She moves to the table. I take my seat across from her.
“I should change, freshen up. This is so nice, and I must look like a wreck. Traveling can do a number on me.”
“You couldn’t look better, Harper.” And the realization settles in, quiet but undeniable. I don’t just want to be here. I want to be here with her.
“Thank you, but could I just put on a dry outfit? It’ll only take a couple minutes, promise.”
I smile and motion for her to go change. She does, returning in a devastating black dress five minutes later.
As we begin dinner, I reach into my pocket and feel the small box there, bow still affixed properly, and I realize that I’m looking forward to this with an excitement I usually reserve for playoff time.
I set my glass of Merlot down and slide the box across the table toward her, watching the flicker of curiosity cross her face. “Before we start,” I say, unable to keep the hint of anticipation from my voice.
Her eyes move from me to the box and back again. “Julian…What is th—”
“Just open it.”
Everything in her stills before she slowly opens the box and carefully handles the five-carat diamond earrings.
She looks up at me like she doesn’t trust what she’s seeing. “Julian… I—these are…”
“It’s Christmas,” I say quietly. “A time for giving gifts.”
Her gaze drops back to the earrings, her fingers hovering above them like she’s afraid to touch for fear of dimming the sparkle. “These are real… real diamonds,” she murmurs
“They are.”
A soft, incredulous laugh escapes her, and she shakes her head slowly. “I can’t accept these.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I can’t, these are too—”
“You lost one of your earrings at the game,” I remind her, leaning back slightly, keeping it conversational. “It was—is—my responsibility to replace them.”
Her eyes lift to me. “That earring I lost was not a diamond.”
“I’m aware.”
She stares at me for a beat, trying to reconcile the logic.
“So,” I add, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at my mouth, “the replacement is.”
“They’re beautiful. Absolutely breathtaking, actually.”
“They are,” I say, though my attention hasn’t left her. “Put them on.”
I watch as she takes out her small gold hoops and replaces them. I can’t help but stare at her. She looks like a goddess, with her sun-kissed skin and sparkling diamonds.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “I have a gift for you too.”
“You do?”
She nods, already pushing back from the table. “Stay here.”
I watch her disappear into the villa.
When she returns, she’s holding a medium-size white box. She sets it in front of me and gestures lightly. “It’s not… I mean, my gift isn’t the same.”
“Don’t worry, I keep competition confined to the ice rink and business. I’m so grateful you’re here in the first place.” I slowly undo the bow and open the box.
Inside is a scarf. Green, black and white. Vipers’ colors.
I lift it carefully, letting the garment fall open in my hands, and it takes only a second to understand what I’m looking at—not purchased, not sourced or bought at a designer store, but hand-made. The texture gives it away immediately, the subtle imperfections that make it perfect.
I look up at her. “You made this?”
She shrugs, but there’s a quiet pride beneath it. “I had a few late nights this past week.”
The simplicity of the statement doesn’t lessen it. If anything, it gives it more meaning.
It must’ve taken her hours and hours to knit this. She only had a few days.
I run my fingers along the edge of it, taking in the detail, the beauty, the fact that she remembered a comment made in passing and then acted on it.
“You mentioned Big Al’s scarf,” she adds, a little more softly now. “How much you liked it.”
“I love it,” I say, because there’s no other response even remotely sufficient.
And I do. Not because of what it is, but because of what it represents.
I set it beside me with more care than I would anything else, my attention lingering there before lifting back to her.
And it hits me then. I haven’t spent Christmas with a woman since before my life was upended years ago.
This place, and this time of year, has always been separate. A refuge I didn’t share, not because I couldn’t, but because I never saw a reason to.
Until now. Until Harper.
And as I sit across from this woman—this woman who spent God knows how many hours making a gift for me with her own hands, who listens in a way most people don’t, who notices the details that matter—I understand a truth with a certainty that leaves no room for doubt.
I didn’t bring her here on impulse. I chose her.
And for the first time in a very long time, that choice feels exactly right.
Dinner lingers. Harper’s the type of company I want more of. By the time the plates are cleared and the last of the wine sits untouched between us, night has descended.
I rise first, circling the table before offering her my hand.
She stands and I pull her into me, placing my mouth on hers.
She sighs into the kiss, sinks into my body completely.
When I pull back, I look down into semi-dazzled eyes.
“I’ve got a separate room for you if you want, but I’d really like you to stay with me.”
She stares at me before sliding her hand into mine and squeezing. It’s electric, like when everything falls into place at the right time, reinforcing this sentiment that’s followed me all evening. “I’d love that,” she murmurs.
We move through the villa without speaking, and I lead her upstairs.
The bedroom is open to the night. Wide glass doors, sheer curtains moving in the breeze, the lamps low and warm. Beyond the primary suite’s terrace, the sea breathes against the cliffs, both dark and endless.
She steps inside, stopping in the middle of the room to look around. The breeze lifts the hem of her dress against her smooth thigh.
She turns, our eyes connecting, and her face does this thing where she tries to look composed and fails. A blush climbs up her body. Her hand moves to her collarbone like she can press it back down.
“Julian…”
I cross the room to her.
I don’t kiss her right away. I want to look at her first.
I cup her jaw with one hand and tilt her face up and just—look.
She lets me. Her lashes flutter. Her breath quickens.
There’s no pretense. She doesn’t know what to do with being looked at like this, and so she does nothing, which is the most undoing thing she could possibly do.
Her eyes go wide. Then dark. Her lips part.
Then I kiss her slowly. I kiss her the way I’d kiss her if we had all night and the rest of my life, because we do, because I’ve decided we do.
Her mouth is warm and hesitant for half a second before something inside her gives, and then she’s kissing me back like she’s been wanting to all day, maybe longer, hands flat against my chest, then gripping, then climbing to my shoulders to pull me closer.
And I let her. I let her feel exactly what she’s doing to me.
When my hips meet hers and she realizes how hard I am through the linen of my trousers, she makes a startled inhale and her fingers tighten on my shoulders.
I break the kiss to watch her.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods, fast.
“Words, sweetheart.”
“Yes.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Yes, I’m—yes.”
I find the zipper at the back of her little dress.
I draw it down one slow inch at a time, watching her face.
The dress loosens at her shoulders, and I ease the straps down with my thumbs.
She shivers, and when the fabric pools at her feet she doesn’t move to cover herself, but I can see her wanting to.
Her hands flutter at her sides. Her chin lifts a fraction.
Lace panties are my kryptonite and now I’m in real trouble. The good kind.
“Come here.” I take her hand and walk her backward slowly, until the breeze from the open doors moves over both of us. Until she’s standing in moonlight. I want to see her in it. I want her to know she’s worth seeing.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her.
She laughs, a small, embarrassed laugh, ducking her head. “You don’t have to—”
“I’m not being polite.” I tip her chin back up. “Look at me. I’m not being polite.”
Whatever she sees in my face stops her breath for a second.
I unbutton my own shirt because if I let her do it, I won’t last. Even so, when it falls and her eyes track over my chest and her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip without her seeming to know she’s doing it, I have to take a slow breath through my nose.
“Your turn,” I say. “If you want.”
She steps in.