Chapter 19 #2
Because I said that out loud.
Slowly — very slowly — I look up.
Mason is biting his fist to keep from laughing.
Irene is smirking like she’s watching her favorite soap opera.
Aunt Susan’s eyebrows are in her hairline.
I want to crawl into the ocean and let the Atlantic finish me off.
Irene claps once, delighted.
“Well,” she says, “at least your eyes still work.”
“A good start,” Susan adds. “But don’t you dare make it easy on him. No. He better work damn hard.”
“Damn hard,” Irene echoes with a knowing nod.
Mason wiggles his brows. “He already is. That production value? Babe, that’s a man who’s ready to get on his knees in emotional 4K.”
“Shut. Up.” My face is on fire. “Shut up, all of you.”
But I can’t stop staring at the screen.
At him.
At the boy who broke me.
At the boy who is trying — really trying — to put the pieces back.
A dangerous thought curls through me.
What if he means every word?
What if this isn’t a game?
What if this is real?
My pulse trips again.
Irene leans in, softer this time.
“All joking aside, honey… someone fighting for you like that? It’s rare. It doesn’t mean you forgive him. It doesn’t mean you forget. But it does mean he’s not giving up.”
Aunt Susan places a warm hand on my back.
“You don’t have to decide anything tonight. Let the boy sweat a little.”
I laugh.
It comes out shaky.
But when I look back at Leo’s face on the screen…
the laughter fades.
Because for the first time…
I’m not angry.
I’m not numb.
I’m not running.
I’m just…
feeling.
Alive.
Confused.
Wanted.
Seen.
And maybe — just maybe — a little doomed.
I swipe to replay the video.
And my heart drops straight through the floor as I whisper,
“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
My phone buzzes before I can stop myself from rewatching Leo’s video a fourth time.
Tristan:
Did you see it?
I stare at the screen a beat too long before typing back.
Me:
yep.
Ten seconds later:
Tristan:
Girl. GIRL.
Forget a home security system — you’re gonna need BODYGUARDS NOW.
I drop my head into my hands and groan loud enough to make Mason snort.
“Oh, they saw it,” he says, raising a brow.
“Everyone saw it,” I mutter. “Half the world saw it.”
A cheerful ringtone chimes — Susan’s text tone — but instead of checking her phone, she steps closer to me, tugging her sweater sleeves over her hands the way she does when she’s nervous-excited.
“So…” she starts, drawing the word out like she’s announcing a royal decree. “Since we’re on the subject of… security… there’s something I should probably tell you.”
I blink. “Okay…”
She toys with a loose curl of hair near her ear — the universal Aunt Susan sign for I might have done something impulsive, don’t freak out.
“You know that guy I’ve been texting?” she says.
“The landscaper-construction-builder-jack-of-all-trades one?” I ask.
“Yes.”
She looks like she’s trying not to grin. “Him.”
“What about him?”
“Well… while you were up in Boston…” she clears her throat, “he sort of… installed a gate.”
I blink. “A gate?”
“For the driveway.”
I blink again. “Aunt Susan—”
“He had to use a jackhammer,” she rushes out, “because the ground’s frozen. But he’s very handy! Very… resourceful. And strong.” She nods to herself. “Anyway. Xavier helped.”
“WAIT. What?” I stare. “Xavier. Xavier Holt. Helped you install a gate?”
“Well, technically I know his housekeeper’s cousin, but this town is basically three square miles, so whatever.”
She waves her hand like logistics are irrelevant.
“He put up some cameras too. Hardwired. And this app thing that links to my phone and yours.”
I grip the counter.
“Do you… know how to use the app?”
“Absolutely not,” she says brightly. “But Xavier said he’d walk me through it again.”
Mason is cackling in the background.
I rub my temples.
“Is this going to be enough?”
Susan exhales. “Honestly? I don’t know. It’s not planting season, so I can’t put in hedges until spring. And anyone with two working legs can hop a fence. But… it’s something.”
I close my eyes.
All my life, home was a place I lived.
But this — this cottage on the water, this quirky woman who’d take on the world for me, this messy, chaotic little haven — it’s the first thing that’s ever felt like something worth protecting.
I straighten.
“Aunt Susan,” I say quietly, “I’m not going to get run out of the only place that’s ever felt like home more than home-home. We’re having Christmas in Granddad’s cottage — Christmas tree and all.”
She looks at me like I just handed her a winning lottery ticket.
Her eyes widen.
Her mouth curves slow and mischievous.
“That’s it,” she whispers.
“Oh no,” Mason mutters. “Here we go.”
Susan claps her hands together like a general planning an ambush.
“We’ll get trees.”
“What?” I deadpan.
“Trees. We’ll get Christmas trees. Real ones. Big ones. Dozens.”
I blink.
Irene appears in the doorway holding a mug of tea, ready for chaos. “Do I sense… a fabulous idea?”
Susan points at her like she’s recruiting a co-conspirator.
“We’re going to line the entire front of the property with Christmas trees. Like a forest. A privacy wall of pine.”
I choke on a laugh. “A pine hedge?”
“A pine barricade,” she corrects proudly. “Thirty trees. Maybe forty. And wreaths on the new gate. And garland. And those giant old-fashioned bulbs. And a big cluster in front of your window so no paparazzi can peek in.”
Mason’s eyes are huge. “Are you building her… a holiday fortress?”
“Yes,” Susan says without irony. “A festive, beautiful, slightly ridiculous fortress.”
I lean back against the counter and laugh. Really laugh.
“That’s going to be expensive,” I say.
She shrugs. “It’ll be worth it.”
I grin, pulling Dad’s check from my hoodie pocket and waving it once in the air.
“Well,” I say, “I did just get twenty grand.”
Everyone freezes.
Then all three of them shout:
“WE’RE CHRISTMAS TREE FARMING THE SHIT OUT OF THIS COTTAGE!”
AThe tree lots are already glowing under string lights — New England doesn’t mess around when it comes to December magic. The smell of pine, cold air, and fresh cider hits me like a nostalgic punch.
We show up with:
· Shani’s dad’s giant pickup
· Two horse trailers
· The chaotic determination of people preparing for war
And then — of course — Tristan and Xavier roll in like it’s a Fast & Furious Christmas special.
Tristan jumps out wearing a leather jacket and a scarf that costs more than my soul.
“LET’S STEAL SOME TREES!” he announces.
“We’re buying them,” Xavier corrects, already handing a bewildered teenage worker a platinum AmEx.
Half the parents at the lot recognize us.
Some of them wave.
Some gasp.
Some pull out phones.
Because apparently… I am a celebrity now.
Later as we are unloading them back at the house… it’s’ chaos. My aunt’s cottage is now a tourist stop.
The trolley bus rolls past on Bellevue Avenue with a guide speaking into a microphone:
“On your right, folks, you’ll see The Jade Bryan House, recently added to the Historic Holiday Tour—”
I nearly swallow my tongue.
“NO,” I whisper.
“YES,” Tristan beams.
People start gathering, snapping pictures.
Susan fans herself dramatically.
“Honey, I could start CHARGING MONEY for this.”
“This is RIDICULOUS,” I groan.
But the madness multiplies.
Carolers show up.
Like, full Dickens costumes, lanterns, harmonies — the whole winter wonderland package.
And I realize exactly how insane this is going to get.
I don’t even see him at first.
I hear him.
His voice is like warm whiskey being poured over ice.
“Need help?”
I freeze mid–tree selection.
He’s standing there in a navy peacoat, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair wind-tossed — the human form of a winter romance novel cover.
And then—
He puts on a Santa hat.
Like… seriously puts it on.
Adjusts the little white ball.
Tilts it at a cocky angle.
I stare at him.
“…Leo.”
“Yeah?” he asks, stepping closer.
“You’re wearing a Santa hat.”
“Baby,” he murmurs, lowering his voice just for me, “I’ll be anyone you want me to be.”
My whole body turns red from the neck down.
“That was so cheesy,” I mutter.
He grins. “Yeah. I know.”
And just like that — awkward melts into easy.
He grabs tree stands.
Hoists a twelve-foot pine on his shoulder like it weighs nothing.
Helps Susan tie garland.
Untangles lights with Shani’s dad.
And everyone sees it.
The town.
The neighbors.
The tourists.
My aunt.
THE FREAKING CAROLERS.
He doesn’t care.
He doesn’t hide.
He doesn’t act embarrassed or entitled or detached.
He’s just… here.
Helping.
Laughing.
Looking at me like he’d swim through frozen ocean water to get close again.
And it hits me — he’s not doing this for clout.
He’s doing it for me.
Five hours later, Granddad’s sea-shack is no longer a shack.
It is a FULL-BLOWN:
· Hallmark movie set
· Winter carnival
· Christmas forest
· Aromatherapy pine explosion
Tristan whistles, proudly surveying our handiwork.
“This place slaps harder than a Debbie Macomber movie.”
Lights twinkle.
Branches shimmer.
The ocean reflects the glow like a sapphire stage.
I’m actually… happy.
Warm.
Safe.
Until someone — I suspect Shani, but it might’ve been the carolers — hangs mistletoe over my head.
“OOOOOOH!” Tristan hollers.
But Cannon-with-a-K from school suddenly appears — because apparently EVERYONE from Newport Prep has materialized out of nowhere — and he steps forward like he’s going to kiss me.
Leo moves faster than a storm hitting the cliffs.
“Don’t you dare,” he growls.
Cannon stops dead.
And before anyone can blink, Leo pulls me behind a pine tree, the lights tinting his jaw gold and green.
His breath clouds in the cold between us.
“I’m not going to kiss you,” he whispers.
My heart skids.
“Not here. Not in front of everyone.”
His voice drops to something molten:
“But the next time we do kiss…
it’ll be because you agree to be my girl again.”
Heat hits my chest like a flare.
“The next time our lips meet,” he murmurs, “and our tongues twine… and our hearts beat as one…”
He steps closer — but not touching.
Never touching.
“…it’ll be because nothing stands between us. No secrets. No lies. No money. No rumors. No fear.”
The ocean wind whips around us.
“Nothing,” he finishes. “And no one.”
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
I can only feel.
Then he steps back, gives me the softest, saddest, most determined look I’ve ever seen on a boy’s face…
…and walks away toward the cliffs.
Like some tortured British literary hero in a coat and Santa hat.
I stand frozen.
Shani whispers, “Holy shit.”
Tristan clutches his chest. “I think I just fell in love.”
Even Aunt Susan fans herself, swooning.
“Honey… I don’t like what happened… but even my old heart is pounding over here.”
I don’t answer.
Because my pulse is still racing from a boy who refused to kiss me…
…and somehow made that the most romantic thing I’ve ever experienced.