Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
“Would you rather always have snow on Christmas… or always have someone to kiss under the mistletoe?”
Lettie made a sound that might’ve been a scoff or a laugh. It was hard to tell with her. “Snow. Obviously.”
“Obviously?” Carlos feigned offense, hand on his chest. “That’s the wrong answer.”
“Says the man who wears jingle bell socks in summer.”
“Snow melts. A kiss can stay with you all year.”
She turned her face toward the fire, but Carlos caught the way her lips twitched at the edges. Not quite a smile. But close. Close enough to count.
Carlos shifted on the bearskin rug until his shoulder brushed lightly against hers. He leaned a little nearer. “All right. Your turn.”
“Would you rather get the perfect gift or give it?”
“Give it. Every time. There’s this moment—right before someone opens it—where you know it’s going to land. Like, really land. That joy? Feels like flying.”
Lettie looked over at him, and for a heartbeat he saw something unguarded in her eyes. Then she blinked, and it was gone.
He nudged her knee with his. “One more. Would you rather have one magical day… or a lifetime of almost-magic?”
“That’s a messed-up question.”
“I know.”
Lettie stared into the fire again, expression unreadable. “Almost-magic,” she said at last. “I think I’d rather believe it could still get better than know it peaked already.”
Carlos let that sink in. The honesty of it. The ache in it. “Yeah. Me too.”
The cabin had quieted around them, the storm outside muting everything to a hush. The only sound was the soft pop of firewood and the hum of their shared breath.
“What do you do,” Lettie asked after a long pause, “when no one’s watching?”
Carlos glanced sideways, caught off guard. Unlike her, he had no problem being vulnerable. “I talk to my Christmas tree.”
Her brows lifted. “You talk to it?”
“Every year I give it a name. Bertrand was last year. He had good posture. This year’s is Rita. She leans, but she tries.”
Lettie snorted. “You’re insane.”
“I’m festive,” Carlos corrected with a grin. “Come on. Your turn.”
She hesitated. Long enough he thought she might deflect entirely. But then, almost under her breath, she said, “I write poetry.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just absorbed it.
“You ever share it?”
She shook her head. “Not ever. It doesn’t rhyme. Too many metaphors. Too honest.”
“I’d read it,” he said.
“I know.” She looked at him. “That’s the problem.”
His heart kicked, low and deep. What did that mean? That she thought he'd get her metaphors, her honesty?
“What would your perfect Christmas look like?” she asked then, eyes still on him.
“Cocoa that doesn’t come from a machine. A snowball fight that ends in laughter, not bruises. The whole town lit up like a postcard. A table full of people who chose each other, not just the ones they were born with. Music. Cracked jokes. Second helpings. Grace.”
Lettie was quiet for a while. Then: “I used to have the answer to that question. Now…” She wrapped her fingers around her mug like it was the only thing tethering her. “Maybe the answer is that I want quiet. Maybe I want to not have to try so hard. Maybe I want something… peaceful. Meaningful.”
Carlos nodded. “I’d call that perfect, too.”
A minute passed. Two. The fire dimmed and deepened. Lettie curled slightly toward him, the space between them growing narrower with each breath.
“What’s your least favorite holiday tradition?” she asked, voice soft now. Almost drowsy.
Carlos’s answer came slower this time. “Pretending everything’s perfect when it’s not. What about you?”
“Forced joy,” she said without missing a beat. “Like when you’re guilted into smiling for family photos even though your world is falling apart.”
Carlos exhaled. He didn’t ask her to explain. He just let it sit between them, a shared weight.
“Have you ever had a holiday heartbreak?” He wanted to know if there was a guy who'd hurt her. Wanted a name so that he could thank him for being wrong because Carlos planned to do everything right for this woman.
Lettie didn’t answer right away. But her posture shifted. She looked smaller somehow, despite the firelight catching the edge of her jaw.
“When my parents retired,” she said. “Packed up, moved to Florida. Just… left Christmas behind. Left me behind. I didn’t realize that was the last Christmas we’d all be together. If I had, maybe I would’ve… I don’t know. Paid more attention.”
Carlos felt something crack gently open in his chest. He didn’t rush to fill the silence. He just watched as Lettie’s eyes began to flutter, her posture sinking farther into the rug, her mug abandoned at her side.
Her head dipped toward his shoulder, not fully resting but close enough to make his breath catch. She was asleep by the time he shifted.
Carefully, he reached up to the bed and pulled the thick knit blanket down, draping it gently over her shoulders. Her lashes twitched. Her lips parted just slightly. Vulnerable in a way she would hate to know she looked.
He watched her for a long moment. “You’re not alone anymore.”
His voice caught on the last part. But he said it anyway.
“I’d never break your heart.”
And when he lay down beside her—not touching, just near—Carlos closed his eyes and let the warmth of the fire and the nearness of the woman who’d once sworn she couldn’t stand him carry him into sleep.