Chapter 24
Ransom
Ididn’t mean to end up at her door.
Okay, fine—I absolutely did.
The wine was good. Jean’s wine tasting had been equal parts blind tasting and a ‘let’s see how drunk we can get the troops’ event.
I’m buzzed.
I know better than to be here when my blood alcohol level is nowhere near legal.
But here I am, holding a tiny bouquet of rosemary sprigs I stole from a kitchen herb garden because…flowers?
When Ember opens the door, her expression flickers—from surprise to amusement to weariness.
Her hair is pulled back. Her face is scrubbed clean. She’s wearing a navy-blue sleep shirt with tiny white stars on it, and nothing else. Her legs are long, and I want to run my hands up them, find her soft and wet and….
Fuck! She looks like home. Like safety. Like everything I’ve missed.
“Ransom.”
“I was trying to go to bed,” I say as I walk her back into her room.
Her eyes narrow. “Your room’s in the other wing.”
Her door closes behind me with a soft hush.
“Right.” I hold up the herbs. “Gift?”
She takes them, her lips twitching into a small smile. “You stole garnishes from the kitchen?”
“Valiantly.”
She nods slowly. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m…disoriented.”
“Are you now?” She leans against the antique desk in her room as she watches me sway in the middle of her room.
This suite is done differently than mine. More feminine. It’s probably her room, the one she stays in whenever she’s here.
It’s warmer, softer. The wallpaper is a pale sage with delicate vines winding across it. There’s a velvet chaise in the corner, in a deep emerald that looks almost black in the low light, draped with a throw.
The bed is large, dressed in layers—ivory linen, a quilt with tiny, embroidered stars. There’s a stack of books on the nightstand. Thrillers mixed in with romances mixed in with astrophysics books.
Everything in this room feels lived-in, thought-out. A ceramic tray holds a scattering of her earrings, and next to it is a tiny copper-framed photograph of Ember with Freja and Anika, all grinning and windblown at the top of a ski lift.
A vase of fresh flowers sits by the window—simple, elegant, local.
This room, like her, is beautiful without trying too hard. Thoughtful. Intimate. And standing here, just a little drunk, a lot overwhelmed, I feel like a Viking trespassing into the fair maiden’s chamber to ravish her.
Fuck! I need to sit down.
“Ransom?”
I give her a lopsided smile. “I’m so in love with you, Sweet Em.”
She frowns. “You’re emotionally volatile, romantically delusional, and three glasses of Papa’s best French reds past charming.”
I grin. “You always did know me best.”
She rolls her eyes.
“I miss you,” I say simply. “All of you. The way you chew on pen caps. The way you read, like you’re absorbing light. The way you make everyone feel like they matter.”
“Stop.” Her voice is soft, trembling. “Don’t do this unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“I don’t want an apology soaked in wine.”
“How do you want it, baby? I’ll give it to you any way you want it.”
“I…you need to go to your room.” She points to her door with a trembling hand.
“You know what I’ve realized since I came to Chamonix? It’s always been you. When I was with other women, I kept looking for something to make me feel alive. But it wasn’t them; it was you.”
She looks down. “This is cruel, Ransom. You were with her. In this house. You slept with her.”
“No.” I step closer. “I didn’t.”
She lifts her chin, eyes sharp with disbelief. I walk closer to her.
“Not once,” I say. “Not after I saw you. I couldn’t. She touched me, and I—Em, it felt wrong. Like I was betraying something I hadn’t even let myself admit was real.”
She swallows.
I reach out. Brush a strand of hair from her cheek. Her skin warms beneath my fingers.
“I never stopped wanting you,” I whisper.
“You stopped acting like it.”
“I know. So did you.”
“I was protecting myself.”
“Ditto.”
We stand like that. Barely a breath apart.
“You should go to your room,” she repeats, but her voice lacks conviction.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
She doesn’t move.
“Just sleep.” I know I sound pathetic, desperate, but I don’t care. I don’t want to hide from Ember. I want her to see me. Strong. Weak. Myself. Real. “Please.”
Another long moment. And then—because we’re us, and because whatever this thing is between us refuses to die—she touches my face.
Her fingers hover over the bruise Aksel gave me, which is now changing color. “Still hurts?”
“No. Not that one.”
I don’t know who kisses whom.
One second we’re standing, the next we’re tangled together, mouths meeting in a rush of heat and memory and raw want. Her fingers curl into my hair. My hands settle on her waist. We kiss like we’re drowning in it—like if we stop, the spell will break.
When we part, we’re both breathing hard.
“I can’t…” she says, stepping away. “No…I can’t.”
“I know.”
I’m so hard. I want her so much. But even with my guard down because of good wine, I know it’s too soon.
I take off my shoes and my clothes as she watches. When I’m down to my boxers, I climb into her bed.
She hesitates, then joins me. Slides in next to me under the down duvet, then turns off the light.
We don’t touch.
Minutes pass.
Then my fingers brush hers.
She doesn’t say anything.
Neither do I.
We settle into each other, slowly, like we fit.
I fall asleep with her breath in my ear, her rosemary tucked beneath her pillow, and a single, impossible hope beating loudly in my chest.