Chapter 11
I pull the duck from the oven, and the rich, savory aroma makes my mouth water immediately.
“This smells incredible.”
Spence is plating the salad with surprising finesse, his large hands moving with precision as he arranges arugula and pomegranate seeds.
“You've done this before,” I observe.
“Survival training includes not starving.” He glances up with a half-smile. “Also had a buddy who was a chef before he joined the Teams. Picked up a few things.”
“A man of many talents.”
His eyes darken slightly. “You have no idea.”
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning that makes heat pool low in my belly.
I busy myself with the root vegetables, trying to ignore the way my hands shake slightly as I transfer them to a serving platter.
We work in synchronized silence, moving around each other in the kitchen. Every time he passes behind me, I'm hyperaware of the space between us—inches that feel like miles and nothing at all.
“Wine?” he asks, already moving toward an impressive rack built into the stone wall.
“Please.”
He selects a bottle, studying the label with concentration that seems excessive for the task. Stalling, maybe. Or just as affected by this tension as I am.
The cork releases with a soft pop, and he pours two generous glasses of red wine.
“To unexpected Christmas plans,” he says, raising his glass.
I clink mine against his. “To making the best of them.”
Our eyes meet over the rims as we drink, and I swear the temperature in the room rises ten degrees.
The wine is smooth, warming me from the inside out. Or maybe that's just the effect of being alone with Spencer McCallister in this impossibly romantic setting.
We carry everything to the dining table—a massive piece of reclaimed wood that could seat twenty but feels intimate with just the two of us at one end.
Spence pulls out my chair, and I try not to read into the gesture. He's just being polite. A gentleman.
A gentleman who told me he wanted to fuck me less than thirty minutes ago.
I nearly choke on my next sip of wine.
“You okay?” His hand is on my shoulder immediately, warm and solid.
“Fine,” I manage. “Wrong pipe.”
He doesn't move his hand right away, and I can feel the heat of his palm through my sweater. When he finally pulls back, I almost whimper at the loss.
The food is extraordinary—rich and perfectly seasoned. We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I'm grateful for the distraction.
“So,” Spence says eventually, “what's your ideal Christmas look like?”
I consider the question, touched that he's asking. “Honestly? I never really had one growing up. After our mom left, Justice tried his best, but he was just a kid himself.”
Spence's expression softens. “He kept you safe as best he could.”
“He did.” I take another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “But safe and happy aren't always the same thing.”
“No,” he agrees quietly. “They're not.”
“What about you? What's a Spencer McCallister Christmas tradition?”
He huffs a laugh, but there's no humor in it. “My family did the whole thing when I was a kid. Tree, presents, the works. Then I joined the Navy and spent most Christmases deployed.”
“And since you got out?”
His fork pauses halfway to his mouth. “Avoided it mostly.”
My heart aches for him. This big, strong man has a deeply hurt place inside.
He sets the fork down. “Lena died in the fall. Every holiday since has been... difficult.”
The weight of his words settles hard on me. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don't be.” He picks up his wineglass, swirling the liquid. “It was a mess, and not totally my fault she was out that night. But we fought over the phone. I was coming home from my last deployment, but she drank that night. She made the choice to drive drunk.”
God. How awful.
“That wasn't your fault.”
“Wasn't it?” His eyes meet mine, and the pain there is visceral. “If I hadn't pushed her away, if I'd been there instead of halfway around the world—”
“You can't live in the what-ifs, Spence. Trust me, I've tried.”
He studies me for a long moment. “We don't have to do this now, or ever. But if you want to tell me, I'd like to know what happened with your ex.”
I swallow hard. “Actually, I don't mind talking about it because I've learned how to process everything that happened.
You're probably aware Justice found me with a black eye and broken wrist when I was 17.
That's when he finally saw what I'd been hiding.
Before that, I was caught in that cycle of abuser manipulation.
Him making me feel like I was at fault, and threatening me if I told anyone.
I was really young, he was a year older.
He was masterful in his manipulation. I'm just glad it's behind me.”
Spence's hand clenches around his wine glass so hard I worry it might shatter. He doesn't look away from me. “Where is he now?”
“Prison. Justice made sure of that.” I take a steadying breath. “But the physical wounds healed faster than the other stuff.”
“Trust issues,” he says.
“Among other things.” I force a smile. “I'm working on it. Therapy, support groups. I built my business off helping teenage girls dealing with similar situations.”
Something shifts in his expression. His respect, admiration, maybe something deeper is visible. “Justice mentioned that. Said you're incredible with them.”
Heat rises to my cheeks and I push my food around on my plate. “I understand what they're going through. What it feels like to be trapped by someone who's supposed to love you.”
“You're not trapped anymore.”
“No,” I agree. “But I'm also not... experienced with healthy relationships. With men who actually respect boundaries and...”
I cut myself off, realizing where this confession was heading.
Spence leans forward. “And what?”
“And make me feel things I didn't think I could feel again,” I finish quietly.
The air between us crackles with electricity. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.
“Liberty—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “The tension with Justice. Your past. My past. All the reasons this is complicated.”
“It's not just complicated. It’s…”
“Impossible?” I challenge.
“Dangerous.”
I set down my fork. “For who? Me or you?”
He doesn't answer, just drinks more wine and stares at me with those intense hazel eyes that say too little and see too much.
“I'm not fragile,” I tell him. “I survived something terrible, yes. But I'm not broken. I'm not some victim who needs protecting from her own choices.”
He reaches for me, resting his large, warm palm over my hand. “I know that.”
“Good. I don't want you treating me different than anyone else.”
He exhales quietly, never looking away. “That would be impossible; you're incredibly special.”
“I think the same about you.”
We stare at each other across the table, the tension so thick it could sink a ship.
Finally, Spence stands abruptly. “I need to clean up.”
He starts gathering dishes with barely controlled movements, and I watch him retreat into the safety of domestic tasks.
Two can play that game. I stand and follow him to the kitchen, bringing another disk.
“You don't have to help,” he says without looking at me.
“I want to.”
We fall into a rhythm—him washing; me drying. Our hands brush under the soapy water, and every accidental touch feels deliberate.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.
“What is?”
“This. Us. Pretending we don't feel what we clearly feel.”
His hands still under the running water. “And what do we feel?”
I set down the dish towel and turn to face him. “You want me to say it first?”
“I already told you what I want.”
“You said you want to fuck me. That's not the same thing.”
He turns, water dripping from his hands.
“What do you want me to say, Liberty? That I've been half-hard since you walked in tonight? That watching you eat dessert made me want to lick chocolate off every inch of you? Or that being alone with you for two days feels like the best and worst thing that's ever happened to me?”
My breath catches, and everything inside of me stills. This is big. “That's a start,” I whisper.
He closes the distance between us with a grumble, backing me against the counter. His hands grip the edge on either side of me, caging me in without touching.
“I'm trying to be good here.”
My breathing speeds. “You're definitely good at making me crazy about you.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “Welcome to my world, sweetheart, but we shouldn't rush into this.”
“What?” I laugh. “Are you kidding me?”
“No. I'm not.”
We're inches apart, and I'm dying for him to touch me. To do anything. “Are you saying that you're going to get this close and not even kiss me.”
He licks at the corner of his lip. “It's killing me, baby girl. But I will not scare you, and if I let go of myself right now, that's something that could happen.”
I close my eyes, inhaling shakily. “I'm not scared of you, Spencer.”
He leans closer. The first touch of his mouth against my neck makes me inhale sharply. “That's good. I'm relieved, but I'm afraid of myself right now.”
Using the edge of his teeth on my neck, he moves toward my ear, breathing roughly against my skin. His arms, where they are caging me in, are shaking with restraint.
He whispers hotly against my ear. “I want to devour you, Liberty.”