Chapter 7 Attic Treasure
Attic Treasure
Cassidy
Iwake up to the smell of coffee and… pancakes? The events of yesterday flood back immediately. The storm. Being trapped. The kiss.
Oh God, the kisses.
Shame burns through me as I remember the desperate way I grabbed Ethan’s shirt, the taste of him, and how right it felt after years of nothing feeling right at all. Unlike our kiss in the kitchen, last night I’d let him touch me, craved it even.
And worse, I started it. Both times.
Heat pools low in my belly just thinking about it, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memory away. What is wrong with me?
Two kisses in one day after eight years of hating him. Two kisses I initiated. Two kisses I can’t seem to regret, no matter how hard I try.
From the kitchen comes the low rumble of Ethan’s voice and Axel’s higher one responding. I strain to hear what they’re saying.
“... mix it like this, see? You don’t want to overmix or—”
“It’s getting fluffy!”
“That’s perfect, buddy. You’re a natural.”
I move to the window, pulling back the curtain to assess our situation. The storm shows no sign of stopping. If anything, the wind has picked up overnight, creating drifts that reach the eaves of the house. Even if the snow stopped right now, it would take days for the roads to be passable again.
I check my phone for weather updates. The forecast shows snow continuing through Christmas Eve, with road closures expected to last through the holiday weekend.
December 23rd stares back at me from the screen.
We’re definitely stuck here through Christmas. Axel is going to wake up on Christmas morning in this broken-down house with nothing. No tree, no presents, no magic. No family Christmas morning with excited squeals and wrapping paper scattered across the floor.
Just two adults who can barely stand to be in the same room and a dead mother who never gave him a real Christmas to begin with.
I think about what he said at dinner—that he won’t get presents if he doesn’t have a family. My throat closes up remembering the matter-of-fact way he said it.
“You’re up.” Ethan’s voice comes from behind me.
I turn to find him standing in the doorway. He’s clearly showered and changed into dark jeans and a navy Henley. His hair is still damp, and he looks frustratingly put-together considering our circumstances.
“Morning,” I manage.
“We made pancakes,” Ethan says. “Though I didn’t make many since you’re not a breakfast person.”
The fact that he remembers this detail about me after eight years shouldn’t make my heart skip, but it does. I clear my throat and turn back to the window.
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll grab some coffee in a bit.” I need distance from him, from the awkward tension crackling between us. “I need to go wash up.”
“Of course,” Ethan says, stepping aside to let me pass.
I slip past him, hyperaware of the small space and how his scent follows me into the hallway. I head upstairs to the tiny bathroom with avocado green fixtures I used last night.
I splash cold water on my face and brush my teeth with supplies from my luggage that Ethan had brought in after dinner last night. I comb my hair into a low ponytail, trying to look more put-together than I feel.
When I emerge, the house is quiet except for the distant murmur of voices from the kitchen downstairs. Rather than face another awkward moment with Ethan, I decide to explore the house thoroughly.
The upstairs hallway is cramped, leading to three small bedrooms and a bathroom. I pause in the doorway of Britney’s room, hit by a confusing tangle of emotions.
Her bed remains unmade, clothes still draped over a chair as if she’d just stepped out for a moment. Journals lie scattered across the room—the ones she’d kept religiously since high school, documenting her every thought and feeling.
Someone needs to pack all this up. Me. I’m the only family left now, which means dealing with Britney’s belongings, her unpaid bills, and probably settling this lease. I add these tasks to my ever-growing mental list of things I’m not prepared to handle.
My gaze drifts upward, catching sight of a cord hanging from the ceiling. I step into the room and pull it.
A set of wooden stairs unfold with a satisfying creak, releasing a puff of dusty air. I take a few hesitant steps up, the wood groaning under my weight.
The attic is dark and smells of old wood and forgotten paper. I feel around for a light switch and find a bare bulb hanging from a rafter.
When the light flickers on, I gasp.
The attic is a treasure trove of Christmases past, though thick with dust and cobwebs that make me immediately start sneezing. Boxes labeled “XMAS DECORATIONS” in faded marker are stacked against one wall.
In the corner sits an artificial Christmas tree, probably six feet tall, still in its original stand. Strings of lights are coiled in plastic containers, and I can see the glint of ornaments through clear storage boxes.
My heart starts racing, but this time it’s not panic. It’s hope.
“Everything okay up there?” Ethan’s voice calls from below, probably alerted by my sneezing fit.
“Ethan!” I call back, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. “You need to see this!”
I hear footsteps on the stairs, and then Ethan’s head appears through the opening. His eyes widen as he takes in the scene.
“Whoa.” Ethan climbs up behind me. “It’s like Christmas threw up in here.”
Axel’s voice comes from below. “What’s up there?”
“Christmas decorations,” I call down. “Lots of them.”
Axel scrambles up the attic stairs with the enthusiasm only a seven-year-old can muster, his eyes going wide as he takes in the Christmas wonderland surrounding us.
“This is amazing!” he breathes, immediately gravitating toward a box of ornaments.
Ethan moves deeper into the attic, and I’m acutely aware of how the low ceiling forces us closer together. When he reaches for a box on a high shelf, his Henley rides up, revealing a strip of tanned skin.
I quickly look away, focusing on Axel. “Careful with those,” I tell him as he examines a delicate glass angel. “They look old.”
“They are,” Ethan says, examining a faded box label. “Whoever lived here before really loved Christmas.”
I watch as he opens a box and pulls out ornaments wrapped in tissue paper. There’s something about seeing all these forgotten Christmas memories that makes my heart constrict painfully.
“We should bring these downstairs,” I say. “See what we’re working with.”
Ethan nods, but when he moves to lift a heavy box, I reach for the same one. Our hands brush, and the simple touch ignites pulsing in my core. We both freeze.
“Sorry,” I whisper, but I don’t pull away.
Neither does he.
The air is thick with everything we’re not saying. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, can smell that clean, masculine scent that’s uniquely Ethan. My eyes drift to his mouth, remembering exactly how it felt against mine last night.
“Ms. Cassidy? Mr. Ethan?” Axel’s voice breaks the spell. “Can we put the tree up today?”
I jerk back, heat flooding my cheeks. Ethan clears his throat and hefts the box.
“Let’s see what we’ve got first, buddy,” Ethan says.
We spend the next hour carrying boxes downstairs, the three of us working in synchronization. Every time Ethan and I pass each other on the narrow stairs, there’s a moment of charged awareness.
By the time we’ve moved everything to the living room, I’m practically vibrating with need that has nothing to do with Christmas planning and everything to do with the man currently kneeling on the floor, going through ornament boxes with Axel.
“Look at this one,” Ethan says, holding up a tiny ceramic Santa. “Someone really took care of these.”
The gentle way he handles each ornament, his inclusion of Axel in examining everything and the patience in his voice do things to my heart. This is what I imagined when I used to dream about our future. Ethan being kind, careful and completely engaged with our children.
“The tree looks good,” I say, needing to break the intimate mood.
We’d managed to get the artificial tree assembled and positioned by the window. It’s a little lopsided and definitely shows its age, but it’s sturdy.
“Now comes the fun part,” Ethan says, standing and dusting off his hands. When he straightens, his shirt clings to his chest, and I forget how to breathe properly. The fabric stretches across his shoulders, highlighting every defined muscle I shouldn’t be noticing but absolutely am.
I busy myself untangling a string of lights, trying to ignore how my pulse speeds up every time he moves near me. But when he crouches beside me to help with a particularly stubborn knot, I nearly drop the entire strand.
“Here,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. “Let me.”
His hands work efficiently at the tangle, and I find myself studying the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he looks down. When he glances up and catches me staring, something hot flickers in his eyes.
“Cassidy,” he starts.
“I found tinsel!” Axel announces, bursting into our moment as he emerges from a box covered head to toe in silver strands.
I laugh, both relieved and disappointed by the interruption. What was Ethan about to say?
“You’re completely covered,” I say, helping Axel remove some of the shimmering strands from his shoulders.
As I pull tinsel from his hair, an idea strikes me. “Wait,” I say, stepping back. “We need something special for the tree.”
Ethan looks up, curiosity replacing the intensity in his eyes. “What did you have in mind?”
I rummage through the craft supplies we discovered earlier in the attic and pull out cardboard, scissors, and a faded marker. “Every child should have their own ornament with their name on it.”
Axel’s eyes widen with wonder. “Really? For me?”
“Of course,” I say, carefully cutting a simple star shape from the cardboard.
“We’ll write your name and the year, and you can decorate it however you want.”
Ethan watches as I help Axel write his name and the year in block letters.
“My own ornament,” Axel whispers, adding silver glitter.
“And every year,” Ethan says quietly, “you can make a new one to go with it. So you can look back and see how you’ve grown.”
The way Axel’s face lights up at the word makes me yearn for possibilities. The promise of continuity, of family, of belonging.
The next hour is devoted to perfecting Axel’s star. His small fingers work carefully but enthusiastically, his tongue poking out between his lips in concentration as he dabs paint and sprinkles more glitter. Ethan holds the star steady for him, his large hands gentle as they guide Axel’s movements.
Throughout it all, I feel Ethan’s gaze flickering to me. Each time our eyes accidentally meet, I quickly look away, focusing instead on helping Axel with reaching for more supplies.
When Axel finishes, his star gleams in the firelight, imperfect but beautiful. The pride on his face when he holds up his creation makes my throat seize.
I thread a ribbon through the top point. “Where should we hang it?” I ask.
Axel surveys the tree with the seriousness of an artist placing a masterpiece. “There,” he says, pointing to a prominent branch at his eye level. “So I can see it every day.” In his excitement, a shower of tinsel flies from his hair.
I laugh and reach over to help him. “Hold still, you’ve got Christmas decorations all over you,” I tell him, carefully removing the strands. “You look like a Christmas ornament yourself.”
When I glance up, Ethan is watching me. The desire I find on his face makes my core flutter with both anticipation and nerves.
This is going to be a very long weekend.