Chapter 9
Holly
Maplewood, New Jersey—Noel’s House
When the truck turns off the main road, I feel it before I see it—the quiet.
The kind that sits deep and heavy in small towns this time of year, where even the air seems to hold its breath beneath the weight of the snow.
The headlights sweep over a long driveway lined with old trees, beeches and oaks, their bare branches dusted in white. The house that comes into view is not what I expected.
It’s big, but not flashy.
Sturdy. Just like the man driving me here.
Two stories of dark wood and stone, warm light spilling from the windows, smoke curling from the chimney into the night.
The kind of thing that looks like it was built to weather storms.
It’s this big, rambling Victorian at the end of a cul de sac that’s probably worth quadruple what his parents paid back in the day.
“Wow,” I breathe. “It’s beautiful.”
Noel kills the engine, and for a second, the world outside is utterly still. The hum of the heater fades, replaced by the soft hiss of falling snow.
“Thanks,” he says, voice quiet. “Hasn’t seen a lot of guests lately.”
I glance at him, and something in his profile—the strong jaw, the shadowed eyes—makes my chest ache.
He’s a fortress of a man, but even fortresses have cracks.
The porch creaks under our boots as we climb the steps.
He presses a code into the alarm system, unlocks the door, pushes it open, and gestures me inside first.
Another pad with more codes and I assume the perimeter alarms are reset.
It’s warm inside.
Not just temperature warm, but alive.
The living room opens up around me like a hug. A wide stone fireplace dominates one wall. Noel sees me looking, and he walks over, presses a few buttons and it sparks to life.
I gasp and smile as the flames crackle low.
A sectional couch made of gray leather sits across from the fireplace, flanked by a pair of mismatched armchairs.
Everything smells faintly of cedar, spice, and him.
There’s a Christmas tree in the corner—half-decorated.
Just the lights.
No ornaments.
But a box of them sits open nearby, as if he meant to finish but couldn’t bring himself to.
“You live here alone?” I ask softly, stepping out of my boots.
He nods, hanging up his coat by the door.
“Yeah.” He runs a hand along the doorframe as if it’s something alive. “My parents built it after they got married. I inherited it after they passed. Didn’t have the heart to sell.”
His voice goes quiet at the end, and for the first time since I’ve known him, there’s something fragile underneath all that control.
My gaze drifts to the mantle. The photos there tell a story of their own—two smiling people in old snapshots, faces creased with laughter and sunlight. They look kind, the sort of couple you can instantly picture dancing in the kitchen, still holding hands after decades.
There’s one of Noel, younger, in uniform, standing proudly between them. He’s got the same stubborn line to his jaw, but there’s an openness in his eyes, a spark that hasn’t yet been worn down by the things he’s seen.
“You were close to them,” I say softly. It’s not really a question.
“Yeah,” he answers, eyes on the fire now. “They were the good kind of people. The kind that made you believe love wasn’t just a word people threw around. I was lucky.”
There’s no self-pity in his tone, no bitterness. Just quiet reverence.
“Yes,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “You were.”
He glances at me then, a small, almost curious flicker in his expression—as if he hadn’t expected me to say it like that, like I meant it.
I turn away, pretending to study the fire so he doesn’t see what’s in my face.
It’s so rare to hear a man talk about love like that.
Not like a fairytale, but like a fact. Something earned. Something steady.
My chest tightens.
I don’t want to think about my own parents. My childhood wasn’t a tragedy—just ordinary in a way that still stings.
My parents weren’t cruel, just distracted.
Dad was always chasing the next deal. Mom was always somewhere between soap operas and PTA circles that didn’t include me.
I remember walking home from school to an empty house, my report card on the counter, hoping they’d notice.
Hoping they’d say we’re proud of you, or at least ask how my day was.
They didn’t.
And eventually, I stopped waiting for them to.
Now, it’s just the occasional greeting card—birthdays, Christmas, obligatory hope you’re well.
I send them one back, polite and hollow, because that’s what you do.
But standing here, watching Noel quietly set another log on the fire, hearing the warmth in his voice when he talks about his parents, something in me aches.
He lost his family. I never really had mine.
And yet, in this small, quiet house filled with the echoes of love that clearly shaped him, I feel something unfamiliar blooming in my chest—something dangerously close to home.
I wrap my arms around myself and step closer to the fire, letting its heat wash over me, pretending it’s enough to hide the look in my eyes.
Because the truth is, it’s not just the house that feels warm.
It’s him.
He moves around the room with an easy familiarity—checking the locks, scanning the windows, flipping switches I don’t recognize.
He’s methodical, always assessing, always guarding. But when his gaze lands on me again, something changes.
“You hungry?” he asks, voice gentler now.
“A little,” I admit. “Mostly tired.”
“Kitchen’s through there.” He nods toward the archway. “There’s stew in the fridge. I make a lot at once—it reheats well. Or I have fresh cold cuts and sliced bread for sandwiches. Bathroom’s down the hall, guest room’s upstairs on the left.”
I blink. “You cook?”
He shrugs, half-smiling. “Man’s gotta eat.”
I grin despite myself. “You just keep getting more mysterious, Noel Kane.”
He raises a brow. “Mysterious?”
“Yeah.” I gesture around. “Tough guy exterior, cozy Christmas cottage interior. It’s confusing.”
That earns me a quiet chuckle, the kind that sounds like it doesn’t escape him often.
“Let’s get some food,” he says, his voice low but gentler now. “We’ll regroup after we eat.”
I expect him to disappear into stoic-soldier mode again, but instead, he heads toward the kitchen.
Curiosity wins over common sense, and I follow.
The kitchen is surprisingly warm and lived-in. Big farmhouse sink, wide butcher-block counters, and an old-fashioned fridge covered in magnets—half of them look like they came from hardware stores or national parks.
He opens it and grabs a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, and a jar of strawberry jam.
“That’s dinner?” I ask, a little laugh escaping me.
He glances over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You were expecting a three course meal?”
“I was expecting, I don’t know—soup? Maybe a salad? Something that doesn’t belong in a lunchbox.”
“This is a salad,” he says, completely serious as he sets the items down. “Bread group, protein, fruit. Balanced meal.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling.
“You’re such a guy.”
He grabs a butter knife, spreading peanut butter thickly across one slice.
“You want crunchy or smooth?”
“Smooth,” I say immediately. “I have trust issues with crunchy. You never know when one of those peanut chunks is going to break a tooth.”
That earns me an actual laugh—quiet, rough, but real.
It does strange, fizzy things to my stomach.
He hands me the jam.
“Your turn, Tinsel.”
“I’m never living that nickname down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” he says, and something about the easy banter makes the tension between us stretch and soften all at once.
We work side by side, and it’s oddly domestic.
Two pieces of bread, a smear of jam, a smear of peanut butter, a little bump of shoulders when we both reach for the same knife. It shouldn’t feel intimate—but it does.
He grabs two tall glasses and heads for the fridge again.
“Milk?”
“Sure,” I say automatically, then blink when he sets down a carton that says Organic, Grass-Fed.
“Organic milk, huh?” I tease, arching a brow. “Didn’t take you for the wheatgrass and granola type.”
He snorts.
“It lasts longer and doesn’t taste like chemicals. Plus, my mom used to say the cows deserved better.”
I grin. “She sounds like she was a saint.”
“She was a force of nature,” he admits, pouring the milk. “You’d have liked her.”
We clink glasses—because apparently, even peanut butter sandwiches deserve a toast—and take a drink.
The milk is cold and creamy, and suddenly the simple meal feels comforting in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. I glance up and find him watching me, leaning one hip against the counter, arms crossed, his half-sandwich still untouched.
“What?” I ask, self-conscious.
He shrugs, lips curving faintly.
“Just didn’t think someone could make PB&J look that good.”
My cheeks heat instantly.
“You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “But you’re smiling. I’ll take the win.”
For a moment, the only sound is the soft crackle of the fire from the next room and the clink of our glasses as we set them down.
Something about the scene—simple, quiet, real—wraps around me like a memory that isn’t mine.
Something about this man makes me feel both safe and wildly unsteady. Like he’s the calm in the storm and the storm itself.
I know I should go upstairs, take a breath, get my head on straight. But instead, I linger there, fingers tracing the rim of my glass.
“It’s really pretty here, Noel,” I whisper.
He glances at me, eyes warm and unreadable.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “It is.”
For a heartbeat, I think he’s talking about the house.
But the way he’s looking at me—soft, intense, like he’s trying not to reach across the counter and pull me in—I’m not so sure.
So I smile instead, small and nervous, and gather my plate.
“Thanks for dinner.”
He nods. “Anytime.”