59. Maeve
MAEVE
Two days later, I wake up sated and pleasantly sore in the gigantic California king that now dominates the largest guest bedroom.
My muscles feel loose and relaxed in that particular way that comes from being thoroughly loved, and there’s a satisfied ache between my thighs that makes me smile despite myself.
We actually had to buy this mattress just yesterday, since not even a regular king was quite big enough for all four of us without someone ending up precariously close to the edge.
The sales associate at the furniture store didn’t even blink when Ford explained we needed the largest bed they made delivered immediately.
Money talks, apparently. But it’s ridiculously comfortable, with memory foam that seems to cradle all of us perfectly, and now that we’re no longer hiding our relationship, there’s no point in keeping up the charade of separate rooms. Taking turns between each guy’s bed would have been exhausting anyway, not to mention emotionally unsatisfying.
This feels right—all of us together, limbs tangled, breathing synchronized in sleep.
I’m still amazed by how accepting Ford’s parents have been.
I’d expected awkwardness, maybe some polite disapproval or requests for separate accommodations.
Instead, I think it’s been a combination of finally seeing Liam for what he really is, refusing to turn a blind eye anymore, and Charles making a genuine effort to repair things with Ford.
There’s been a shift in the household dynamics that’s palpable—less tension, more authentic conversation, even some laughter during meals that doesn’t feel forced.
Lydia has been incredible through all of this.
I caught her yesterday in the library with Charles, giving him what looked like a full presentation about nontraditional relationships, complete with little diagrams on her phone and what appeared to be scholarly articles she’d printed out.
Her determination to help her family understand is remarkable.
Things between Charles and Ford won’t magically fix themselves overnight. They’re both stubborn men who struggle to show vulnerability. There are decades of misunderstanding to work through, ingrained patterns of communication that will take time to change.
But they’re both trying, really trying, and that’s what matters. I’ve seen Charles make genuine attempts to ask Ford about his work, and Ford actually answering instead of giving those clipped, professional responses he usually defaults to.
For the first time, I have real hope that they’ll find their way back to each other.
I stretch lazily, feeling the pleasant pull of well-used muscles, and glance up at the ceiling.
I can’t help but laugh softly when I spot the mistletoe still hanging there, tied with an elaborate blue velvet ribbon that definitely wasn’t part of the original Christmas decorations.
Gabriel put it up last night with great ceremony, claiming it was a Christmas tradition that required thorough enforcement.
All three men were very dedicated to their mistletoe duties, taking turns kissing me underneath it until I was breathless and laughing so hard my stomach hurt.
Propping myself up on my elbow, I check the clock on the nightstand and blink in surprise.
It’s nearly ten in the morning, much later than I expected.
I’m usually up by seven regardless of how late I went to sleep, an ingrained habit from years of early morning shifts and tight schedules.
I knew we’d worn each other out last night, but I figured I’d still wake up at my usual time.
Apparently my body decided it needed the extra recovery time.
The men start stirring around me, and Gabriel groans dramatically from his position near the edge of the mattress.
“I always try to sleep next to Maeve, and somehow I always end up on the outside edge like I’m about to be ejected from the bed entirely,” he complains, although there’s humor in his voice.
“You’re fine,” Hayden grumbles from behind me, one arm tightening around my waist possessively.
“You can have the prime spot tonight,” I assure him, twisting to press a kiss to his shoulder. The skin is warm and smells like the expensive body wash he uses mixed with something that’s purely him. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”
I give each of them a good morning kiss, savoring the lazy warmth of Christmas morning.
Ford’s lips are soft and languid, his tongue darting out to taste mine.
Hayden’s kiss is more demanding even in his drowsy state, his hand cupping the back of my neck.
Gabriel’s is playful, his mouth quirking up in a smile against mine.
“Damn, we slept late,” Ford notes, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Mom will be storming up here any second. I’m shocked she’s let us sleep in this long.”
“Well, we were occupied for quite a while,” Hayden points out with a satisfied smirk.
Heat floods my cheeks as I remember exactly what kept us busy last night. “Right. Well, I’d hate to throw off Elaine’s Christmas schedule. Let’s get moving.”
We all get dressed quickly, pulling on comfortable clothes—jeans and sweaters, the kind of casual Christmas morning attire that feels relaxed but still presentable for family.
Then we head downstairs, but I stop dead when I reach the foyer landing, my hand gripping the banister as I take in the scene below.
Everything has changed.
All the traditional green and red decorations that were here yesterday have vanished, replaced with an elegant winter palette that takes my breath away.
Blue lights twinkle like captured starlight from white garlands that drape gracefully along the staircase railings and doorways.
A stunning white tree stands in the living room, decorated with blue ribbons, silver ornaments, and what looks like hand-crafted snowflakes.
Even the stockings hanging from the mantle have been swapped out for white ones with blue embroidery.
The whole house looks like it belongs in a sophisticated winter wonderland, something out of a high-end magazine spread.
“What is all this?” I ask, my voice coming out smaller than intended as I stare with wide eyes at the transformation.
I can see every detail clearly now—the way the blue lights cast a warm glow that doesn’t strain my eyes, how the silver ornaments catch and reflect the light without creating harsh contrasts I can’t distinguish.
“After you fell asleep last night,” Ford explains, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me close, “we came down here and replaced everything. Took us about three hours, but it was worth it.”
“We wanted you to actually be able to enjoy the decorations,” Hayden adds with none of his typical gruffness. “To see Christmas the way it should be seen.”
“You did all of this? While I was sleeping?” I can barely process the scope of what they’ve accomplished. This isn’t just swapping out a few ornaments. They’ve redecorated the entire first floor of this massive house.
“I helped!” Lydia calls cheerfully, appearing from the dining room with a huge grin and what looks like pine needles still stuck in her hair.
“When the guys told me their plan, I jumped at the chance to help. We had to get Mom’s permission first, but she was all in once she understood what we were doing.
She felt awful that she hadn’t thought about making Christmas work better for you. ”
Tears spring to my eyes, and I hug each of them tightly, breathing in their familiar scents and feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of their thoughtfulness. “This is incredible. I can’t believe you went to all this trouble.”
“This is how family should treat each other,” Gabriel says simply, his accent making the words even more meaningful. There’s something profound in the way he says ‘family’—like he’s never had one before but he’s claiming us as his.
“We wanted you to actually see Christmas,” Ford adds, pressing a lingering kiss to my temple. “Not just endure it.”
“Well, it worked.” And it’s true. Even when I thought they were just demanding bosses, they paid attention to details about me that most people never noticed.
We head into the dining room for breakfast, where Elaine has laid out a spread that looks like something from a magazine—fresh fruit, pastries, coffee cake, and what smells like cinnamon French toast. As I eat, I find myself daydreaming about next year.
Maybe I’ll be here to make my famous cinnamon rolls from scratch, the ones with the brown butter glaze that take three hours but are worth every minute.
Maybe I’ll finally get to share my citrus sweet rolls, the recipe I’ve been perfecting for years, instead of just reheating the undeniably tasty but impersonal catered pastries Elaine keeps stocked in the fridge.
The thought of having a place in this family’s traditions makes my chest warm.
Then we migrate to the living room for present exchanges under the beautiful white tree. The room feels different in daylight—magical, but also comfortable. Homey, even with all the elegance.
I give everyone the gifts I picked out during our shopping trip in town—a pair of gloves for Charles, a beautiful silk scarf for Elaine, and some art supplies for Lydia. They all seem genuinely touched that I thought to include them, their faces lighting up as they unwrap the presents.
“You barely know us,” Elaine says as she runs her fingers over the soft silk. “This was really thoughtful.”
I duck my head, embarrassed but also relieved that the gifts went over well. “Hopefully I’ll get to know you all even better next year.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, an assumption about a future I’m not sure I have the right to claim yet. But no one seems bothered by the presumption.