Chapter Four
Shep
I woke to gray dawn light filtering through the shop windows and Flannery asleep in my arms.
The storm had passed. Outside, everything was white and still, the kind of quiet that only comes after a blizzard. Inside, the heating system hummed its steady rhythm, and Christmas lights still twinkled on the tree in the corner.
I should've been thinking about the roads, about getting home, about Dash. Instead, I couldn't look away from Flannery sleeping.
Her hair had come completely loose during the night, spread across my chest in waves that caught the dim light. Without her glasses, her face looked younger, softer. Vulnerable. One hand rested on my chest, right over my heart, and I could feel the warmth of her palm through my skin.
Last night had been... Christ. I didn't even have words for it.
I'd told myself I was just helping her through an awkward situation. Being neighborly. But somewhere between the inventory and the massage oil and her looking up at me with those eyes while she took me in her mouth—
No. This wasn't just physical. Couldn't be, not with how badly I wanted to wake up like this every morning.
She stirred, her hand flexing against my chest, and then those eyes opened. For a second, she looked confused, disoriented. Then she focused on me, and a shy smile curved her lips.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi yourself."
"Did you sleep?"
"Some." I brushed a strand of hair from her face, the strands catching on my rough fingers. "You?"
"A little." She stretched, the blanket slipping down, and I caught a glimpse of bare skin—the curve of her breast, the line of her hip, her skin glowing in the light. She didn't pull the blanket back up this time, just looked at me with wonder and desire. "I can't believe last night was real."
"It was real." I ran my hand down her side, following the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip. "You're real. And you're here."
"I feel different."
"Different how?"
She bit her lip, thinking. "Like I woke up in my own skin for the first time. Does that sound crazy?"
"No. That sounds exactly right." I drew her closer, breathing her in.
She kissed me then, soft and slow, and I tasted sleep and sweetness and her. My body responded immediately, hardening against her thigh, and she pulled back with a small smile.
"Again?" she asked, but her hand was already moving lower.
"Can't help it. You do things to me, Flannery Green."
"Good things?"
"Very good things." I rolled her onto her back, settling between her legs. The blanket slipped to the floor, and I could see her clearly now—every curve, every mark I'd left, every inch of pale skin. "And I want to take my time with you this morning. Make you feel good."
"You already did. Multiple times."
"I know." I took her nipple in my mouth, sucking gently, and she arched into me with a gasp. "But I'm greedy. Want to make you come again. Want to see your face when you do."
She laughed, breathless, and threaded her fingers through my hair. "You're insatiable."
"Only for you."
The words came out before I could stop them, too honest. But she didn't pull away. Instead, she drew me up for another kiss, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against mine.
I took my time mapping her body in daylight. Kissing down her neck, across her collarbones, between her breasts. The scatter of freckles across her shoulders. The way her skin pebbled when I breathed across it. The flush that spread down her chest when I sucked her nipple.
"You're gorgeous," I murmured against her skin. "Especially like this. Flushed with need."
"Shep—" Her hips lifted, seeking friction.
"What do you need?"
"Touch me. Please."
I slid my hand between her legs. She was already wet for me. "So ready."
"Always," she breathed, then seemed to realize what she'd said. Her eyes widened slightly.
"Always," I repeated, sliding two fingers inside her. "I like the sound of that."
I worked her slowly, curling my fingers to find that spot that made her moan, using my thumb on her clit while her face showed me everything—the way her lips parted, the flutter of her eyelashes, the exact moment pleasure overtook her.
"Don't close your eyes," I said. "Want to see you."
She met my gaze, holding it even as I built the pressure, and when she came it was while looking right at me, saying my name.
"Beautiful," I said, withdrawing my fingers. "Now I want to be inside you."
"Yes. Please."
I grabbed one of the few remaining condoms, rolled it on. When I pressed into her, we both groaned at the sensation. She was tender—I could tell by the small wince—but she locked her legs around my waist and pulled me deeper.
"You sore?" I asked, holding still.
"A little. But I want this." Her hands ran down my back. "Want you. Move. Please."
I did, setting a slow rhythm that had her gasping. Different from last night's urgency—this was about savoring every thrust, every sigh, every moment before reality came calling.
"You feel incredible," I told her, meaning it in every way. "Like you were made for me."
"Maybe I was." She drew me down for a kiss, her legs tightening around me. "Maybe we both were."
The words hit hard. Maybe we were—maybe all those months of bringing Dash to Story Time, watching her from a distance, wanting her, had been leading to this. To her beneath me, open and willing and mine.
I shifted the angle slightly, and she gasped. "There. Right there."
I kept the rhythm steady, hitting that spot with each thrust while I saw her getting close. Her breathing changed, quickened, and I knew she was almost there.
"Touch yourself," I said. "I want to see."
Her hand slid between us, fingers finding her clit, and the sight of it—her touching herself while I moved inside her—nearly undid me.
"That's it," I encouraged, fighting to hold on. "Let me see you come."
"Come with me," she gasped, her fingers moving faster. "Please, Shep. Together."
The plea broke me. I drove deeper, harder, and felt her clench around me as she came. The sensation triggered my own release, and I buried myself to the hilt, groaning her name as I pulsed inside her.
We stayed joined for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"I don't want to move," she whispered.
"Me neither."
But eventually I had to withdraw. I dealt with the condom, then gathered her back into my arms. She settled against my side, her head on my chest, her leg thrown over mine, skin still warm and damp.
"We should probably check the time," she murmured.
"Probably."
We didn't move. I stroked her back in lazy circles, feeling her heartbeat slow against my ribs. This was what I wanted—not just the sex, though that had been incredible. But this. The quiet aftermath. The intimacy of lying together.
"I could stay like this all day," she said softly.
"Me too."
We dozed for a bit, and this could be normal. Waking up next to her every morning. Having all the time in the world.
My phone buzzed somewhere in the pile of our clothes.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. Then again.
"You should check that," Flannery said, resignation in her tone.
"Don't want to."
"It might be about Dash."
She was right. Damn it. I pulled away reluctantly, found my jeans, and pulled out my phone.
Three texts from Heather Miller. The first was from an hour ago: Boys are fine, "helping" Jon make pancakes. Happy to keep Dash as long as you need.
The second, twenty minutes ago: Dash asking when you're coming. No rush!
The third, just now: A photo of Dash and Jayden covered in pancake batter, grinning at the camera like maniacs.
Reality hit. Responsibilities, schedules, family expectations.
"Everything okay?" Flannery asked, sitting up and wrapping the blanket around herself.
I showed her the photo. "Looks like they're having fun."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "They're adorable."
"Yeah." I set the phone down and pulled up the weather. Highway 287 clear. Main roads passable. No more excuses. "I should probably get over there soon. It's Christmas Eve. Got wrapping to do, and my folks are coming over this afternoon. Shane and Dusty with their girlfriends too."
"Right. Of course." She clutched the blanket tighter. "I need to get home too. Mee-Maw's expecting me. We have baking to do before church tonight."
"We'll be there too. Whole family. Wouldn't miss the Christmas Eve service."
"Oh." Her expression flickered—hope? Fear? I couldn't read it. "That's... good. I'll see you there, then."
She stood, gathering her clothes. The skirt she'd worn to the library yesterday. The sweater. She pulled on each piece, buttoning the cardigan slowly, tucking her blouse in, smoothing the skirt.
I pulled on my jeans, my shirt. When she reached for her glasses, I almost stopped her, wanting to keep her like she'd been moments ago—bare and open and pink-cheeked. But she slid them on, and just like that, she was Miss Flannery again.
Except I knew better now. What she looked like when she came. The sounds she made when I touched her just right. How she tasted sweet and felt right in my arms.
"I should close up the shop," she said, not quite meeting my eyes. "Make sure everything's secure."
"Flannery—"
"I'll just be a minute." She disappeared into the back room.
I stood there trying to understand what was happening. This morning she'd been in my arms, talking about always wanting me. Now she couldn't meet my eyes.
When she came back with Vixen in her carrier, she'd put herself back together completely. Hair secured with those knitting needles. Coat zipped to her throat. Expression carefully neutral.
"Ready?" she asked.
No. I wasn't ready for this distance, this formality, this pretending.
But I nodded. "Yeah."
We moved through the shop checking locks, straightening displays, erasing evidence of what we'd done. I wanted to say something—needed to—but nothing felt right.
Outside, the parking lot was buried under at least eight inches of fresh snow. Our cars sat under white mounds, barely recognizable. The highway beyond had been plowed—a dark ribbon cutting through white—but getting out would take work.
"I'll dig you out," I said.
"You don't have to—"
I caught her hand before she could finish the protest. She looked up at me, startled. Her eyes darted away, then back. She bit her lip.
"Last night," I started. "This morning. That meant—"
"I know." She pulled her hand free, gentle but firm. "It's fine. We don't have to make it complicated."
The words hit hard. Don't have to make it complicated. Like what we'd shared was simple. Easy. Meaningless.
"Flannery—"
"We should go." Final. Quiet. "You need to get Dash. I need to get home."
She was right. We did need to go. But I knew I was losing her, that she was slipping away right in front of me.
I found the scraper in my truck and started on her car. The physical work felt good—something concrete to do with my hands. Snow fell from the windshield in heavy chunks. The driver's side door was frozen shut; I had to yank it three times before it opened.
She loaded Vixen into the passenger seat, then climbed behind the wheel. Through the windshield, I saw her checking her mirrors, adjusting her seat, fiddling with the heater—anything to avoid looking at me.
When she finally did glance over, I raised my hand. She returned the gesture, small and uncertain, then backed out of her spot.
I stood in the parking lot and watched her taillights disappear down the highway.
The cold seeped through to my insides despite my heavy overcoat, but I didn't move. Couldn't seem to make myself get in the truck and drive away from this place where everything had changed.
Finally, I climbed into the cab and headed slowly toward the Millers' place.
***
The Millers' house came into view, every window blazing with Christmas lights. I could see movement through the kitchen window—probably the boys still causing chaos.
I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine.
The front door opened and Dash came barreling out, still in his pajamas, Jayden right behind him.
"Daddy!" He launched himself at me when I got out of the truck. "We made pancakes! And they had chocolate chips! And we had a pillow fight! And Jayden's got a new race car track we built!"
I swung him up, breathing in the scent of syrup and little boy. "Sounds like you had fun."
"The best! Can we have sleepovers every week?"
"We'll see." I carried him toward the house where Jon and Heather stood in the doorway, looking amused and exhausted in equal measure.
"Thanks for keeping him," I said.
"Anytime." Heather smiled. "They're good together. Mostly."
"Hope he wasn't too much trouble."
"Not at all." Jon clapped me on the shoulder. "Though I should warn you—they made plans for approximately seventeen more sleepovers before New Year's."
I thanked them and got Dash bundled into the truck. He chattered nonstop about pancakes and dragon forts the whole drive home.
My family's vehicles were already crowding my driveway when we pulled up—Mom, Dad, Shane, Dusty. Christmas Eve chaos about to begin.
But all I could think about was tonight.
The church service.
Seeing her again.