Chapter 27 Ember
Ember
The cable car groans as it ascends, the lights of Chamonix glittering like earthbound stars beneath us.
I pull my coat tighter around my body and glance sideways at Ransom.
He hasn’t told me where we’re going—only that I should wear warm layers and trust him.
The first part I had in my closet.
That second part? I’m still figuring it out.
We step out at the top of La Flégère. My breath catches.
I’ve skied here dozens of times, but I’ve never been here at night.
The slopes sleep under a blanket of silence. The pine trees are tall silhouettes, dusted with fresh snow, and above us, the sky is infinite.
The stars feel closer here, like I could reach up and stir them.
“This way.” Ransom waves toward a wide wooden deck just beyond the cable station.
I follow the crunch of his boots. It’s quiet, save for the wind’s hush and the occasional groan of settling snow.
I gasp. “What’s this?”
On the wooden deck, blankets and furs are laid out, surrounded by lanterns, flickering with warm, amber light.
A thermos. Two mugs. The bottle of Montrachet we won, half-wrapped in tissue. Two wine glasses. A cutting board with a small wheel of cheese. A loaf of crusty bread, still warm, with steam rising into the cold. A knife tucked beneath a napkin.
I stare at it in awe.
He’s set up a stargazing picnic.
“How?” I ask, bewildered.
“Maybe Racquel and Chef Pascal helped.”
I don’t move. Can’t. No one has ever done something so lovely for me before.
“I thought maybe we could…look up.” He rubs the back of his neck. He does that when he’s nervous. “You always liked that.”
I sit slowly, the cold deck softened by thick sheepskin. I hold my hand out to him. “I love a picnic.”
“I know.” His voice is full of emotion as he takes my hand, lets me draw him down next to me.
I’d once told him that my dream date was gazing at the stars. Then he’d taken me to the planetarium—now, he’s brought the stars and the planets to me.
“You remembered,” I whisper, touched.
He wraps a blanket around me. “Everything.”
He kneels beside me and holds up the bottle of Montrachet. “Think this is a good place to drink it?”
I nod.
He sets the bottle down with reverence.
He takes his time uncorking it—carefully. After all, the wine is thirty-five years old. Wine this aged is more than what’s in the bottle; it’s a story waiting to be told.
Now, our story of a star-filled picnic is going to be part of the wine’s story.
I watch him, the way his hands move, the way he reads the label again, even though he knows exactly what it says.
When he pours the wine into the glasses, the scent blooms into the crisp night air. Dark cherries, cedar, rich and wild and earthy.
He hands me a glass. Our fingers touch.
I lift it and swirl it very gently. It glistens in the light like garnet. The wine is old; it doesn’t need to be oxygenated.
I take a sip. And forget everything else.
It’s exquisite—velvety and deep. It opens slowly on the tongue, revealing itself with every second.
Blackberry. Tobacco. Violets.
I close my eyes. “God. This is ridiculously gorgeous.”
Ransom is just as star-struck. “Amazing,” he agrees.
We savor the wine, huddled together, surrounded by fur and blankets.
My nose is cold, so I nuzzle it against his neck to warm it.
His breath against my face arouses, heats…makes me feel seen, loved, cared for.
“Winning the wine was a sign, I feel, a way for us to welcome us back,” he reveals.
I smile at him.
I take another sip. “So. If a 1990 Montrachet is what we share at the start…what on earth are we going to drink to top this?”
He leans closer, brushing his shoulder against mine. “Something older. Something bolder. Something that says we made it. A vintage Dom Perignon. We’ll open it for our wedding.”
My heart skips.
What? What did you say, Ransom? Wedding? Marriage? Like commitment? Like forever. Like…what the…?
Since I have no idea how to handle that and I don’t want to discuss it, I lift my glass to his.
“To staying in the moment.”
He laughs, knowing precisely what I’m doing, and clinks his glass against mine. “To second chances.”
“Yes, to that, too.”
Right now, I can do second chances. But marriage is a ski slope too far. We’ve just gotten back-ish together. We’ll see if we can last after we go home, after we leave the magic of Chamonix and the holidays.
My fingers curl around the wine glass.
For a while, we sit in silence, sipping, watching the sky. No pressure. No walls.
He holds up some bread with cheese. I let him feed me. He likes that. Likes it even better when I lick his fingers; I see the telltale flare of his nose that tells me he’s aroused.
“You used to tell me about the stars, like bedtime stories for the sky.”
I tilt my head back. “There—Cassiopeia.” I point. “The queen. She’s always upside down this time of year.”
“Upside down?” He bites into a slice of baguette loaded with Brie.
“Yeah. It’s part of the myth. Punishment for her vanity. She’s beautiful, so the gods decided she needed humbling.”
“Seems harsh.” He glances up.
“But she still gets to shine,” I point out.
He nods. “And that’s what makes her interesting.”
I cut a portion of the Manchego and nibble on it. “Even when the world flips her, she’s still visible and luminous.”
I look at the cheese tray. “Did you bribe Racquel to tell you about all my favorite cheeses?”
“Didn’t need to. I know your favorite cheeses. And if you eat all your cheese and drink all your wine, you can have hot chocolate with”—he tilts his head toward a brown bag—“macarons from Ladurée.”
“Pistachio?” I ask, my eyes wide.
“You’ll have to finish your cheese to find out about dessert,” he teases.
Suddenly, I feel small for doubting his feelings for me when he’s gone out of his way to do something like this for me.
“Just because no one else has done that for you doesn’t mean you should fold the second he does,” Freja said when I told her Ransom was taking me on a surprise date—and how guilty I felt for giving him such a hard time about the past. “It means he needs to keep showing up. Keep doing the work. So you start to believe you deserve to be treated well. That’s his job now. ”
“Tell me about your lab,” he says after a beat. “The postdoc work.”
I raise a brow. “You want to hear about exoplanetary magnetospheres?”
“I won’t pretend to fully understand, but I want to know.” He winks. “And it’s sexy to hear all those terms roll out of your mouth.”
“You sure that you want to risk getting out of control hearing me say things like”—I lower my voice—”Gegenschein.”
“What the fuck is that?”
I smirk. “A faint glow, seen in the night sky opposite the sun, which is caused by sunlight reflecting off interplanetary dust in the ecliptic plane.”
“Right.” He arches a brow, amusement flickering in his gaze.
“Or.” I move my face closer to his. “Perigalacticon.”
His eyes narrow on my lips.
“It’s the point of closest approach for an object orbiting a galaxy, including another—”
He slams his mouth on mine.
This time, the kiss is not soft or sweet. It’s bold. Bright. Big. Like Jupiter.
I remember his taste. The incredible flavor that is Ransom.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“I want you,” he says on a ragged breath.
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to rush this, though. I…you need time.”
Insecurity, sudden, harsh, collides with my heart. “You…ah...don’t want…to?”
He growls, “Em.” He takes my hand, slides it under his coat, and places it on his erection. I squeeze. “Fuck. Don’t do that. I’ll come in my pants.”
An out-of-control Ransom in bed is a guaranteed good time. I know from experience.
He brings my hand up to his mouth, kisses the palm. “Not now. Be a good girl and keep your hands to yourself.” He holds said hand. “You were telling me about the work you’re doing for your postdoc.”
I pick up my wine and take a nice, long sip. I need it to cool my insides.
“We’re analyzing emissions around a candidate planet in the TRAPPIST-1 system. You know, the one with seven Earth-like planets?”
“Three of which might be in the habitable zone?”
He always impressed me with the breadth of his knowledge.
“Exactly. My lab is using spectrographic data from the James Webb Telescope to examine atmospheric indicators. CO? levels. Water vapor. Potential biosignatures.”
“And what would that mean? If you find them?”
I take another sip of wine, let the warmth settle. “It would mean we’re not alone. Or at least, that we’re not the only ones with the right recipe for life.”
He leans back beside me, watching the sky. “That must feel…big.”
“It does, because we’re part of something ancient. Something still unfolding.”
We finish the wine and the bread, and the cheese. Altitude makes you hungry.
Then we drink hot chocolate and demolish the macarons, all twelve of them.
Well, you can’t just eat one, can you?
I have eight. He has four.
We talk about ski accidents, and share bad grant funding jokes. He tells me about a young resident who keeps mistaking the pineal gland for the pituitary, and how it’s driving him nuts.
He tells stories, just as he used to, funny ones, insightful ones, and serious ones.
It’s easy to be with him. Soft, wonderful, joyous.
But what if he takes it away again?
“I want to show you something.” Ransom reaches into his coat pocket. He pulls out a small, folded star map—one of those glossy ones you can buy from a planetarium. My handwriting is scrawled across the corner.
I gasp. “You kept that?”
He offers it to me. “You made it for me.”
We were in Big Sur, at a cabin, and the power went out. We went stargazing.
“You traced every constellation we could see and wrote ‘So you don’t get lost when I’m not there to guide you.’”
My throat tightens. “I was such a nerd.”
“You were…are my compass,” he says softly. “It just took too long for me to figure it out.”
It feels damn good to hear him say that, so I snuggle into him, let him hold me, and begin the process of healing me, him, us.
We sit beneath the stars like that, long after the cocoa’s gone cold. The macarons are just a memory. The bottle of Montrachet is empty. Crumbs of baguette are spread on the fur and blankets, despite our best efforts.
Just sky and snow and two people trying to meet in the present.
We descend from La Flégère into Chamonix, which is a glittering jewel.
Shops glow with window displays—crimson ribbons, sleigh bells, and candles nestled in pine boughs.
The scent of roasted chestnuts and candied almonds curl through the air, signaling it’s still Christmas in Chamonix.
Ransom slides his gloved fingers through mine as we walk toward the square.
“Where now?” I ask.
“Now, time for some fun,” he declares.
I laugh when I see that Ransom has brought us to the ice rink, and surprise, surprise, my family is there.
We are welcomed by Thomas, gleefully shouting, “I’m a hockey player!” Followed by Latika calling out, “No full-speed tackles!”
The town rink is nestled beside the river, framed by trees. It’s like something out of a storybook—an oval of glistening ice under a net of fairy lights.
Families swirl in loose circles. A couple twirls in synchrony near the center. Children tumble and laugh, giddy with joy. Someone’s golden retriever is wearing booties and barking every time its owner slides by.
Papa is skating backward, pulling Anika by both hands while she shrieks with laughter.
Uncle Bob is trying (and failing) to spin Aunt Tanya.
Freja is gliding effortlessly, her scarf trailing behind her like a streamer, while Jonathan watches her with a love-struck look he doesn’t even try to hide.
We say hello to everyone and head to the rental hut.
Ten minutes later, Ransom and I are laced up and wobbling toward the rink. Well, he’s wobbling. I step onto the ice like I was born to it.
“You’re showing off,” he mutters, catching my arm.
“I’m being merciful,” I counter, grinning. “You haven’t even fallen yet.”
Famous last words.
Two seconds later, his feet shoot out from under him. There’s a whoosh and a thud, followed by a loud groan as he sprawls flat on his ass.
From across the rink, Freja claps. “That’s one point for gravity!”
I skate over, circle him once, twice, just for fun.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” he grumbles.
“You said you like being grounded,” I tease, offering my hand.
He takes it, grinning, and then yanks me down so I’m also on my ass. “Ransom,” I protest.
He gets up then, faster than me, and circles around me.
“Happy?” I ask dryly, sending him a look that says, ‘I’m not impressed.’
I chase him.
I catch him.
He hugs me.
I feel like I’m floating.
There’s a moment—spinning past my mother and father, Freja and Jonathan holding hands, the kids chasing each other, the music swelling—that hits me like a sudden gust of joy.
This feels right.
The skating.
The togetherness.
Ransom.
He fits, and not only because of the past we had, but because of the present we’re choosing.
We stop near the edge of the rink, breathless, warm from movement.
Ransom leans close, brushing his lips against mine. “So…what’s the Richter scale on that smile?”
I laugh. “Solid seven.”
His eyes gleam. “Room to improve.”
And then he does something ridiculous—throws his arms out and tries to twirl.
Fails.
Falls again.
He groans and flops dramatically onto his back.
The lights twinkle above him like stars.
“I give up,” he declares. “Leave me for the Zamboni.”
I sit down beside him, right there on the ice. The world spins on, skaters swirling past, music in the air. “Come on, old man, you’re making me look bad.”
I know now that we’re not merely two people who were broken.
We’re two people falling for each other again.
It feels very, very good.