Chapter 4
Tom
Tom adjusted his gloves and steadied the beam while one of the crew nailed it into place.
His shoulders burned in that satisfying way—the ache of doing something real.
He should be in the office but he liked to pitch in on-site when he could.
Architecture used to thrill him. But these days it was just a job. That was part of growing up.
Still, today he could lose himself in the rhythm of hammer blows, the smell of cut wood, the wind sharp against his neck.
Out here, a day’s work was measurable. Solid.
Around him came the music of construction—metal against metal, saws whining, the low calls of men working to finish before the Christmas break.
He stepped back, squinting up at the frame. This was one of his designs—understated, unremarkable.
“Tom!”
He turned at the sound, spotting his brother weaving through the stacks of lumber, his hard hat slightly crooked and a messenger bag slung across one shoulder.
“Shouldn’t you be in the office?” Tom asked, bracing the beam while the foreman checked the level.
Jake shrugged. “I skipped out early since it’s Christmas Eve.”
Tom frowned. “Dad won’t like that.”
Jake grinned, unbothered. “Do you have it?”
Tom almost smiled. Almost. “Come on, it’s in the trailer.”
They crossed the job site together, weaving through mud and lumber stacks, stepping into the cramped warmth of the site office. Tom dug into his canvas messenger bag, pulled out the velvet box and handed it over.
Jake exhaled in pure relief. “Thanks, man.” He held the box up, admiring it. “Mia’s going to lose her mind. First married Christmas, you know? I want it to be perfect.”
Tom grunted. “Yeah.”
Jake clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Seriously, I owe you one for holding onto this for me.” He rocked back on his heels. “We decorated a tree together. Can you believe that? I want every Christmas to feel like this.”
Tom rolled his eyes.
Jake laughed. “Come on, I know you and Lauren must have gone all out too.”
Tom frowned. Lauren had, and Tom hadn’t been able to stop her. Their house currently looked like Santa’s workshop had exploded—garlands, bows, tea towels, wreaths on every door. Glitter that turned up in his socks. The kind of thing that made him cringe every time he walked in the door.
He couldn’t wait until she grew out of it.
One day she’d look back at her acrylic snowflakes and hot-glued ornaments the same way he looked back at his college designs—embarrassed.
Jake tucked the necklace box into his jacket and gave Tom a mock salute before heading out, humming a Christmas song under his breath.
Tom tugged his gloves tighter and headed back to the build.
One more hour before they lost the light. Then he’d have to stop off at the mall.
God, the mall. On Christmas Eve.
Fighting through chaos to buy some token present.
Then home to the craft explosion.
Tom shouldered his way through the mall entrance, the blast of overheated air hitting him after a day out in the cold. The place was a madhouse—shoppers clutching bags, kids running wild, holiday music blaring too loud from overhead speakers.
Every surface screamed at him: flashing lights, plastic holly, inflatable Santas sagging. A riot of color and chaos that made his teeth ache.
It looked like Lauren’s living room multiplied by a thousand.
But he wouldn’t have to be at the mall very long, whereas Lauren’s decorations would drag on in his life for weeks.
His father would take one look at their house tomorrow and—
Tom shook his head, refocusing. He only needed one thing. Lauren's gift.
Everything else under their tree was “from Tom and Lauren.”
A jewelry kiosk caught his eye, and Tom slowed. He thought of the necklace Jake had bought for Mia. Maybe Lauren would like something like that, too. He drifted closer to look at one of the pendants.
The price made him wince.
He made good money working for his father's firm—better than most architects his age. But there was no reason to waste it on something as pointless as this.
The paycheck had been the whole point of taking that job in the first place. Stability. You couldn't ask a woman to build a life with you if you weren’t sure about next month's rent.
And he’d wanted to marry Lauren more than anything.
His father had been right in the end. His college portfolio had been childish. Bold for the sake of being bold.
The queue at the till snaked halfway down the aisle. Tom rubbed a hand over his face, weariness dragging at his shoulders. The smell of cinnamon pretzels mixing with perfume samples was too much. Oversaturated everything—music, color, people.
He just needed to grab something and get out of here. A box of chocolates, maybe?
He shifted, irritated. The thought of standing in line for an hour for overpriced candy seemed ridiculous.
Besides—everything would be half-price in two days. Lauren could pick up something for herself then, twice as much for the same money.
He’d write her a check. Easy. Done.
Tom turned toward the exit. His boots thudded against the floor, the noise swallowed by “Jingle Bell Rock”. The couples he passed were bickering, arms loaded with bags, looking exhausted and irritable.
He didn’t blame them.
Christmas was the worst. And Lauren—
She needed to grow up.
Tom's mouth moved against Lauren's, soft sounds filling the dark bedroom. His hands found the curve of her waist, pulling her closer.
A felt garland was drooped across the headboard, pom-poms dangling. On the dresser, hand-painted Christmas ornaments clustered around a candle.
He rolled them, putting himself on top, framing her face with his hands.
Better. Much better.
All he could see now was Lauren. Her flushed cheeks, her kiss-swollen lips, her eyes soft and dark and full of want. God, she was beautiful. His wife was so fucking beautiful.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and Tom let himself sink into it. Into her.
This was what mattered. Not the decorations. Not the crafts. Just Lauren, warm and soft beneath him, making those sounds that drove him crazy.
He kissed down her neck, felt her arch into him, heard her whisper his name.
Perfect. She was perfect.
As long as he didn't look at anything else in the room.
His hand found the hem of her pajamas—reindeer wearing Christmas scarves, for Christ's sake—and slid underneath. Her skin was warm, and she gasped when his fingers traced higher.
"Tom," she breathed, her body pressing against his, and for a few perfect moments there was nothing but skin and breath and the soft sounds she made when he touched her just right.
Tomorrow his family would arrive. Tomorrow he'd have to watch his father’s face as he took in the explosion of handmade Christmas. Tomorrow he'd feel that familiar embarrassment creeping up his neck.
But right now—right now Lauren was here in his bed, soft and willing.
Tom kept his eyes on her face. His beautiful, almost-perfect wife.