Chapter 15
The next few weeks were a blur of warmth, laughter, and the kind of happiness that felt too fragile to last.
Creed was everywhere, slipping into the spaces of my life with such ease that I couldn’t remember when he hadn’t been there. This wasn’t how he used to move, and yet he was choosing it anyway.
It wasn’t just that we were spending time together. It was how we were spending it.
At work, he held my hand as we walked the halls, easy, unannounced, like it was simply where his hand belonged.
And at home—God, at home, it was even more dangerous.
Dangerous because it felt so damn right. Because he was there.
He was there when we finished decorating the Christmas tree, lifting the girls onto his shoulders so they could hang ornaments on the highest branches, his deep laughter mixing with their giggles.
Creed was with us when we bundled up and drove through the glowing Christmas light displays, his arm draped over my seat, his voice rumbling through the car as he told stories that had the twins in fits of laughter.
When we took the girls to see Santa, his large hands curled around theirs as they pulled him eagerly toward the line, firing off questions about whether he’d ever met the real Santa before.
And every single night, when the house was quiet and the girls were asleep, he was there pressing me against the walls, against the fragile rules I had set for myself.
And I let him because I wanted him. Because this man had become the gravity holding my world in place.
Through permission slips and glitter-covered backpacks, through calendar reminders and half-forgotten bake sales. Life didn’t pause for emotional recalibration. It just... kept going.
And somehow, Creed kept going with us.
The Christmas assembly was on a Wednesday morning, the kind of thing I would’ve normally attended with Aunt Ruth, slipping into a folding chair at the back of the auditorium with coffee in a travel mug and a polite smile fixed in place.
This time, Creed sat beside me.
Not front row. Not center. Just... there.
Morgan stood on the risers in an oversized red sweater, her voice a half-beat behind the others as she sang her heart out anyway. Michelle waved wildly the second she spotted us, nearly missing her cue.
Creed leaned forward instinctively, elbows on his knees, attention locked.
“She’s off-key,” he murmured under his breath.
I smothered a laugh. “So were you in kindergarten grade.”
He glanced at me, surprised I’d said it. Then his mouth curved. Just a little.
Afterward, the girls ran straight for us, breathless and proud, arms flung wide.
“Did you see me?” Michelle demanded.
“I did,” Creed said easily, crouching to her level. “You were the loudest.”
Morgan puffed up. “That’s because we practiced.”
He nodded solemnly. “Clearly.”
No hesitation. No awkwardness.
Just presence.
That night, we wrapped presents at the dining table—construction paper snowflakes taped to the windows, cocoa growing cold beside us. The girls argued over tags and tape. Creed sat across from me, sleeves rolled, folding paper with surprising precision.
“You’re good at that,” I said.
“I had to be,” he replied. “My mother was... particular.”
I didn’t ask more. I didn’t need to.
He let Morgan stick a crooked bow on a box meant for Aunt Ruth without correcting her. Allowed Michelle to use too much tape. Let the chaos exist.
At one point, I caught him watching them—not smiling, not intervening. Just... absorbing.
The school holiday party came next. Cupcakes. Paper crowns. A chaotic sing-along that devolved into giggles halfway through. Creed stood near the back with the other parents, hands in his coat pockets, nodding politely when introduced.
No titles. No IWM. No CEO aura.
Just Creed.
On the drive home, Morgan asked from the backseat, “Are you coming to the cookie swap too?”
Creed glanced at me first.
I waited. Let him choose.
“If that’s okay,” he said carefully.
Michelle clapped. “Yes!”
And just like that, it was decided.
Cookie dough dusted the counters the next Saturday. Flour everywhere. Laughter echoing off the cabinets. Creed wore an apron Aunt Ruth insisted on tying herself, grumbling under his breath but not stopping her.
I watched him from the doorway, chest tight with something I refused to name.
This wasn’t romance.
This was integration.
And that was far more dangerous.
Later that night, after the girls were asleep and the house had settled into its familiar creaks, Creed stood by the Christmas tree, adjusting an ornament that didn’t need adjusting.
“They feel... safe here,” he said quietly.
“They are,” I replied.
He nodded once, like he was filing that away.
Neither of us said the thing hovering between us.
Because saying it would make it real.
And we were both pretending not to notice how real it was becoming.
* * *
THE WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS, I found myself standing in the middle of a crowded mall with Mavis, holiday music playing over the speakers.
It was reckless, stupid, dangerous—but I bought him a gift.
A dress shirt. Expensive. Mauve, the color of power and elegance. The color I imagined against the sharp angles of his frame, against the olive hue of his skin. The second I saw it, I knew it was perfect.
I bought Aunt Ruth a cashmere sweater, warm and soft—something she could wrap herself in the way she had wrapped herself around me and the girls when we needed her most. I bought gift cards for Dixie and Mavis, my two best friends, because they never wanted for much except a reason to drink gourmet coffee and drag me along.
And as I walked through the aisles, the bags weighing heavy in my hands, I realized how much I had changed.
Because this wasn’t just Christmas shopping.
This was me planning a future that included Creed Kirkland in it.
* * *
THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS Eve, Creed Kirkland did something no one expected.
He announced he was closing IWM until the day after New Year’s, giving every single employee a paid holiday.
It was a bold move. One that sent a ripple through the company, through the industry. But Creed had never been the kind of man to follow the rules. He made his own.
To cap off the end of the year, he hosted the annual Kirkland Manor Christmas Gala—the most exclusive corporate event of the season.
A four-course meal. Live entertainment. Crystal chandeliers glittering over silk-draped tables, and corporate Christmas gift bags—smart notebooks, wireless charging pads, and a subscription to a fitness app.
It was the kind of event people would talk about for months, an invitation coveted by every executive in the city.
And Creed made damn sure my family was there.
Aunt Ruth, elegant and warm, glowing beneath the ballroom lights in a deep plum-colored dress.
Morgan and Michelle, wide-eyed with wonder, their little hands wrapped in Creed’s as he led them through the grand halls of his estate, answering their million-and-one questions with the patience of a man who had long since stopped resisting their hold on him.
He didn’t leave my side.
Not when he introduced me to my colleagues. Not when he pulled me onto the dance floor, his hand pressing low against my back, his lips at my ear as we swayed to the slow rhythm of a song neither of us were really listening to.
For a moment—just one—I lost him.
Not physically. Not really.
I stood near the edge of the ballroom as guests filtered toward the terrace, the hum of anticipation building around the sleigh rides outside. Coats were retrieved. Laughter rose. Glasses clinked.
And Creed stepped away. Only a few feet. Just long enough to greet a board member. To murmur something low and efficient. To become, once again, Creed Kirkland—the man who commanded rooms without touching anyone in them.
I watched the shift happen in real time.
The way his shoulders squared. The way his expression smoothed into something unreadable. Controlled. Polished.
Untouchable.
A familiar unease curled in my chest.
This is who he is, a voice whispered.
This is the man you’re falling for.
I imagined it then—not tonight, not this perfect moment—but later.
The day when the girls weren’t charming distractions.
When the music stopped. When real life pressed in with questions he didn’t know how to answer.
Would he still reach for me then? Or would he step back, the way he always had, retreating into power and silence when things became too real?
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how fragile this happiness felt. How easy it would be to shatter if I leaned into it too hard.
Then Creed turned.
His gaze found me instantly.
Locked.
And whatever mask he’d been wearing slipped—just enough.
He crossed the space between us without hesitation, his hand finding the small of my back as if it belonged there. As if he belonged. His thumb pressed once, grounding. Intentional.
“You okay?” he murmured, too softly for anyone else to hear.
I nodded, forcing a smile that felt braver than I was. “Just thinking.”
His brow furrowed, not in irritation, but concern. “About?”
I hesitated, then shook my head. “Nothing I want to ruin a good night with.”
He studied me for a long second, as if weighing whether to let that stand. Then, instead of pushing, he leaned in and pressed a kiss just beneath my ear.
“We’ll take it one moment at a time,” he said quietly.
A choice.
My chest loosened.
When he offered his arm and guided me toward the doors—toward the cold air, the sleigh bells, the waiting magic—I took it. But the thought lingered just loud enough to matter later.
We stepped outside, the air crisp and biting, and the sleigh rides began.
The sleigh was draped in thick plaid blankets, its runners gliding smoothly over the fresh powdery snow as the horses’ breath curled into the cold night air.
We piled in together—me, Creed, the girls—wrapped in warmth, wrapped in something more.
The girls squealed with excitement, their hands gripping the edge of the sleigh as they took in the fairy-tale landscape.
The estate grounds were bathed in soft golden light, the trees dusted with fresh snow, the stars burning bright above us.
And Creed—he held me the entire time. His arms locked around me, his body solid, unyielding, his breath warm against my temple as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to my cheek.
A promise. A dangerous, beautiful, terrifying promise. And as I let my head fall back against his chest, as I let myself sink into the feeling of him, the feeling of us, I knew the truth.
I had fallen. Completely. Irrevocably.
And for the first time in months, I wasn’t afraid.