Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Emma
I didn’t know Owen snored in his sleep. He’s shirtless and sprawled out, with one arm slung across the couch like he owns the whole world.
The firelight flickers over his bare chest, the faint scar near his ribs, and the small tat just under his arm on his torso. His lashes are dark against his cheeks.
I doubt he sleeps like this often. He’s always half-alert, like he’s waiting to fight off a nightmare. But now? Now he’s peaceful.
Now he’s mine.
I watch him for far too long, the mug cold in my hands, my feet curled under me. The faint scent of cinnamon and sugar lingers in the air.
He says Santa’s coming, and of course, I don’t have anything for him. I’m not much of a gift-giver. It always felt overwhelming trying to figure out the perfect gift.
But I’m snowed in and need to give him something. Not flashy. Couldn’t do store-bought, even if I wanted to, but I really want to give him something that’s… us.
I rifle through the cabinets and find he really did stock up well on food with an eye toward Christmas. That time when my mom and stepfather left us for the weekend and Owen grounded my ass, I kept myself busy making cookies.
Six years ago…
The morning after he grounded me, the kitchen smelled like cinnamon and burnt sugar. I had to occupy myself somehow.
I stood barefoot on the cold tile, sleeves shoved to my elbows, my apron dusted in flour.
I needed to do something, anything, to scrub away last night.
The bumper. His voice. That low, lethal tone that still echoed in my head.
And worse, the worst of all, the way my body had liked it. That heat that crawled over me.
Now I’m focused on the dough. Clack of the whisk. Crack of an egg. I measured like I could fix it.
I was on the second tray of Christmas cookies, lopsided stars and trees that leaned a bit too far, when I heard it. The groan of the floorboards behind me.
I didn’t have to turn.
Owen.
He filled the doorway with his broad shoulders and large frame. His hoodie pushed to his forearms, sweats riding low, and his jaw shadowed in stubble. He didn’t speak. He just stood and stared at me with those green eyes.
At me.
At the apron.
At the mess I’d made of myself.
Heat flushed my cheeks before he even opened his mouth.
"I thought I told you to rest," he said, his voice low, still stern. The familiar heat instantly flared.
"Couldn’t sleep." I kept my eyes on the tray. “Wanted to be useful."
He moved in, slow and measured. "Baking at seven a.m."
Damn, was I in trouble again?
"Better than lying in bed thinking about how stupid I was."
My throat tightened. Why was I so weirdly emotional all of a sudden?
He stepped closer. The air changed.
“You’re not stupid.”
I looked up. He didn’t blink.
“You did a stupid thing. That’s not the same.”
Still felt the same.
“I just—” My voice cracked. I looked down at the cookies. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.”
His breath caught. Barely. But I heard it.
“You scared the hell out of me, Em.”
I looked up again, and then I saw it.
Not the overprotective older-brother thing. Not just fury or frustration.
Something that made my skin prickle and my stomach flip.
Was it just my imagination, or was he… did he…? He was looking at me like he didn’t know whether to drag me into another lecture or against the wall.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“I know.”
A pause. Then, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, he muttered, “Cookies smell good.”
I blinked. “You want one?”
His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Yeah.”
I handed him a crooked star. My fingers brushed his. They were warm, rough, and I wanted to memorize how it made me feel when our hands touched. He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t move.
He bit into it slowly. His jaw flexed, still watching me.
“Now that’s breakfast,” he said, and there was the smallest smirk at the corner of his mouth. He snatched a half dozen more in his big hands and turned away.
I rolled my eyes. “They were for later.”
But my heart was slamming in my chest.
Because for the first time… I wasn’t sure this crush was one-sided.
Not at all.
The cookies are simple ones. Did he make sure I had the ingredients so I could recreate them? Or was it just a coincidence?
Why do I get the feeling nothing’s just a coincidence with him? I find the ingredients, tiptoeing like a thief, mixing by the dim light over the sink.
While they bake, I write.
It’s a short story, just two pages. About a hunter who falls in love with a girl made of snow. He builds her a cabin, then warms her with stolen fire. She melts in his hands and asks, "Will you mourn me?" And he says, "No. I'll make you again. As many times as it takes."
I sign it: For Owen. Who never lets go.
That’s two presents. I hope he doesn’t think they’re lame. I think hard on what else to give him before it strikes me: a coupon book.
Folding old paper scraps, index cards, and the back of a receipt, I draw little hearts in the corners, doodle mistletoe, and write in my half-loopy cursive:
There are more.
Some sweet. Some filthy. By the time he stirs, the cookies are cooling, and the snow has stopped. Outside the window, it’s inky black, and I imagine I see the silhouette of Santa’s midnight run.
Owen blinks, groggy, half smiling when he sees me by the fireplace, wrapped in his hoodie.
“Hey, Santa,” I whisper. “You have to get up. It’s almost midnight.”
He stretches, then stands and pads over barefoot, still sleepy, sexy as fuck.
“What’s all this?” he murmurs against my neck. He smells the cookies.
“Ooh. That reminds me…”
“Of the time you were watching me and got mad because I took the car and you grounded me?”
“Mm-hmm. Exactly. You were lucky I went easy on you.”
I snort. “You call that being easy on me?”
He gives my ass a slap and winks, fisting a handful of cookies. “Santa needs to fatten up.”
Then he sees the papers.
“What’s this?”
“I owed you a present or two.” He lifts the story first, reading it quickly. Then again, more slowly. His jaw works, emotion flickering there. When he’s done, he doesn’t speak. Just pulls me close and buries his face in my hair.
“Fuck, lass.” It’s all he says.
Then he sees the coupons. The look on his face shifts to dark, possessive, amused.
“You tryna kill me?”
“Thought it was festive.”
He flips through them, murmuring the words to himself. That vein in his neck throbs, and his breath deepens. When he looks at me again, it’s not sleepy at all.
“You’re mine, Em.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean it. You keep doing shit like this… I’ll never let you go.”
“Good.” I slide a cookie between his lips. He groans and eats the whole thing in a few big bites.
Then he lifts me, fast and rough, one arm under my thighs, and carries me toward the bedroom. My laughter bounces off the walls.
“Merry Christmas, Owen.”
He kicks the door shut—his mouth at my neck. Hands everywhere.
“Merry fuckin’ Christmas, Emma.”