Chapter 17
One Day until Yule
She had a difficult time going to sleep.
Even once she had finally passed out, a few hours before dawn, it was fitful and restless.
When morning finally arrived, she awoke to find that her pillow was shockingly warm beneath her cheek.
As she breathed out, it shimmied, tickling her.
Her eyes shot open, realizing that one of her arms was draped over this “pillow” as well.
Oh God.
At some point, she’d burrowed herself against the warm bulk of Stephan, face nestled into his hair and arm draped over him as if holding on to a bit of flotsam to stay afloat at sea. His arm had fallen over hers, and his fingers had wrapped their way around her hand to pull it close to his chest.
With every inhale, his chest rose to brush her fingertips before lowering again. Her toes, she realized, were tucked between his legs like little pastries in an oven. Heat gathered in pockets wherever they touched.
It was mortifying.
She could not let him wake up and find her this way, but it was also difficult to move, because he was so warm.
And not just his body, but his everything. She’d never met someone who held the world so close. If his was a universal order in which you got back what you put out, then he deserved to always have someone there when he needed them, because he was so effortlessly giving.
It wasn’t a game or a trick. He had no hidden agenda that his outward selflessness disguised; it was simply who he was.
She had resisted accepting that for so long, she realized, because it highlighted how selfish she behaved in contrast. The dog-eat-dog belief that everyone was equally self-serving had been a convenient shield for greed.
With it gone, all she could do was stare down at the things she had once been a part of and feel ashamed.
He should’ve hated her. She’d have deserved it if he had. Why didn’t he hate her?
Gently, slowly, she extricated herself, rolling to the side of the other bed in her best impression of a secret agent. When she was certain he was still asleep, she crept from the bed and made for the bathroom.
Had he woken up previously and found her suctioned to him like a barnacle?
Her body was tight and awkward at the thought, and she tried to shake it off as she set up for her morning routine.
She assembled her products into their normal line, grateful they’d survived the great peppermint-ing, and that this one piece of normalcy had been preserved.
Whenever Grayson managed to catch her before she’d put on her face, he’d drop a comment that reinforced its dire necessity. “You look tired.” “You coming down with something?” “What’s up, babe? You’re missing your normal glow.”
First, the cleaners—oil and then foaming.
Next, vigorous exfoliation, a toner for balance, and an essence for lightweight hydration.
Four separate serums, eye cream, moisturizer, and an SPF—then finally a face mist to seal it all in and a touch of lip balm to guard against the cold.
It was too much to put on a full face of makeup before her shower, but she smoothed things over with a touch of concealer, mascara, eyebrow gel, and her trusty lip and cheek stick for a healthy flush.
With that, she was ready to be seen and moved to the kitchenette to hunt through the cabinets, hoping there’d be something she could use to cook a more elaborate breakfast than the milk and eggs they’d grabbed from a market on the way.
Success.
Someone had left behind pancake mix, and the spice cabinet was well stocked. Pancakes from mixes were a bit flat and underflavored for her taste, so she added baking powder for more fluff and a few extra shakes of cinnamon and nutmeg.
One last inspection of the cabinets revealed a buried treasure—malted milk powder. A few ounces of that added to the bowl left her with a thick batter that smelled sweet and earthy. It would give the pancakes a toasted, creamy flavor for that commercial-kitchen finish.
By the time Stephan let out a loud yawn and crawled from bed, she had a full plate of pancakes ready and waiting.
His eyes widened. “You cooked us breakfast?”
She turned a spatula nervously in her hands, watching for any sign that he realized she’d used him as a body pillow, but he was entirely focused on the plate of food.
“I made do,” she said finally.
With a pleased grunt, he dug in, jaw slowing as he savored the taste. “Okay, I’m pretty sure these are the best pancakes I’ve ever had.”
Her cheeks warmed pleasantly. “It’s mostly a mix, but I added a few things to spruce it up.”
He eyed her plate. “You not eating?”
“I ate a test pancake, but I’m not big on breakfast.” She scooched back, taking her plate to the sink. “I’ll get my shower done so we can get moving.”
He looked puzzled. “You haven’t showered yet?”
“No, why?”
“You look like you’re wearing makeup.” He tilted his head to the side. “Did you put makeup on before you showered?”
“I, ah, yeah. Habit, I guess. I don’t like getting caught without my face on.”
“Hmm,” he said with a puzzled scrunch of his eyebrows. She repressed the urge to roll her eyes as she made for the bathroom.
Probably he was the kind of guy who claimed he liked his women natural, which either meant “women so stunning they truly didn’t need makeup” or a natural “look,” which was actually more work than less subtle makeup routines.
Grayson had made it clear she was not in category A, and she wasn’t going through the effort of B for the sake of anyone’s pretenses.
After a long hot stream washed away her night, she stepped up to the window to towel off.
And shrieked.
The crone stood at the edge of the woods, staring directly through her window. When she caught Hayleigh’s gaze, she raised her cane, and the foliage at the edge of the woods parted, leaving an arched path. The old woman disappeared through the arch, and it remained open.
Was it possible the crone wasn’t actually here just to torture her? Was she being invited somewhere?
There was a knock. “You okay in there? I thought I heard a scream.”
“I’m fine.” Her voice came out clipped, and she pressed her hands into the bathroom counter to steady herself. “I just…want to get into town and figure out who did this to me.”
The last time she’d walked into Eucharist, she’d been high on the bravado that radiated off Jack Bree and spread to the entire team. They’d walked in with the confidence of those who held all the cards, certain they’d get exactly what they had come for. And they had.
Walking in not as the player but the played left her fighting the urge to cover her face.
There was no certainty she’d succeed, and if she did, it would probably mean lowering herself to beg.
She would do it, of course, anything to save Red and get her life back, but that didn’t mean she was looking forward to it.
Eucharist was still waking when they arrived, though the breakfast places near the ski resort were flush with crowds headed up the mountain.
The line at Starbucks was out the door, but Hayleigh braved it all the same.
When her caramel macchiato was in hand, she took a deep inhale, excited to get exactly what she’d asked for.
And she did. That was that. Whatever else she’d hoped the feeling might bring with it, like a renewed sense of certainty or normalcy, didn’t materialize. She frowned into her cup, shaking off an odd sense of betrayal.
“So how are we supposed to go about finding this witch?” she said.
“Look for signs of spellwork, the occult, or even just decorations that are more Yule than Christmas. That might lead us to them if—and this is a big if—they don’t feel the need to hide who they are around here.”
“And how do we know we haven’t just found someone who likes herbs and spends too much time on Pinterest?”
He shrugged off the concern. “I’ll be able to get a read pretty fast if we talk to them in person. Not to mention, if they are the one who cursed you…”
“They’ll probably make it pretty obvious how much they hate me.”
“I was just gonna say, they’ll probably recognize you,” he said with a chuckle.
“By hating my guts.”
His hand briefly brushed across the top of her back. “Anger and hate might be neighbors, but they’re not the same thing.”
It had begun to snow lightly, and the wind blew the falling flakes in whorls through the village and over a small ice rink with a tree at its center—not unlike the one at the Bellevue mall that she’d been so nostalgic for.
Its only skaters were a pair of children being followed by a tired-looking father whose energy and enthusiasm for being awake and active this early did not match their own.
Stephan must have seen something in her gaze, because he asked, “You want to go take a turn around the rink?”
She did, of course she did, but they couldn’t. “We’ve got more important things to do.”
He waved off the argument. “It’s still early. Most of downtown isn’t even open yet. Besides, it seems like something sent you a bit sideways this morning.”
“You don’t think it’s a bit…cheesy?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“No, it reminds me of when I used to skate as a kid. But…”
“Let me guess, someone said something that made you feel like you shouldn’t like it anymore?”
“Yeah…Yeah, that’s what happened.”
His eyes crinkled in understanding. “I get that, but personally, these days I subscribe to the ‘embrace the cringe and be free’ way of being. Life’s too short and the world too on fire to hold back from anything harmless that makes you feel good.
I know I said it already, but take happiness where you can find it.
I truly believe that.” He planted a finger against her shoulder, prodding. “So?”
“So…” Her eyes sharpened. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Midwinter.”
He chuckled as they approached the ticketing counter. “Not much. I’ll tell you that.”
She enjoyed the feel of supple, well-broken leather as the rink attendant passed a pair of skates her way. “Have you ever skated?”
“Not once,” he said with a grin, shoving his feet into blocky hockey-style skates while she slipped into the much sleeker figure style.
“How is it you grew up in the mountains and never learned to skate?”
“Ice is a bit…temporary for my comfort.”
Once she was satisfied with her lacing—and his, which she completely retied after tutting over his fumbling attempts—they took experimental steps across the black rubber flooring around the rink.
Her feet wobbled only slightly before adjusting to the narrow points of contact with the earth, but Stephan took one step and nearly toppled—would have if she hadn’t grabbed his arm to steady him.
“Thanks,” he said in a low voice, looking down from inside a curtain of hair. He wasn’t wearing a cap, and snow was catching in its pale strands, a layer of silver on gold.
She looked back at every bit of anti-long-hair-on-men propaganda she’d ever heard with resentment.
It had clearly been spread by men who lacked the skill to grow their hair out this healthy and full.
As he caught her gaze, his lips quirked into a coy smile, and his eyes once again darted to her mouth.
Take happiness where you can find it.
She pulled away, clearing her throat. “So you’re comfortable on this rink? It feels less temporary?”
He gestured at its surface. “This is clearly about one or two inches of water they sprayed over the ground. The only place people skate near Elk Ridge is an actual iced-over lake, which I don’t fuck with.”
Hayleigh stepped onto the ice. It had been a few years since she’d been in skates, but her body remembered it, and after a few tentative strokes, she launched into a glide. She turned her face to the sky, and the snow settled on her skin, cold but soft, like frozen petals.
“Oh no, you’re good at this.” Stephan was still clinging to the side of the rink, occasionally jerking one foot forward before shuffling his hands.
Spinning to look at him, she traveled back in his direction, teasing, “This is a skating rink, not a walking rink.”
“I’m finding my footing,” he said with a playful growl.
He attempted to lunge at her and fell smack down onto his hands and knees as she easily slipped aside, leaving a clean cut in the ice with her blades.
His legs slipped out from under him when he attempted to get back on his feet, and he collapsed to his back, laughing at his own helplessness—full-throated giggles into wheezes and then back again.
She’d never known anyone so built for laughter as this man, and he had no problem laughing at himself, or being laughed at.
That was not a Gray family trait.
After a turn around the rink, she stopped at his side. “Come on, get up. There is not enough rink for you to take up this much of it.”
He tried again to stand, but even with her steadying him, it was no use, and he took her down with him.
They landed in a heap, pelvis to pelvis, and his hands darted to her hips reflexively.
Where his fingers touched, her nerves lit up despite the many layers of fabric between them, and it was hard not to imagine him guiding them exactly where he wanted them.
For a second, they both seemed to hold their breath, but then he started laughing again. With his body shaking below her, she couldn’t help but catch his laughter like an infection, and she giggled along.
“What are they doing, Daddy?” One of the skating children had stopped to stare, and his question brought them back to the reality of the very public place where they were sharing a not-very-public moment.
“Just keep skating, bud,” said the man, ushering the kids on and giving Hayleigh and Stephan a judgmental shake of the head.
“I think you’re going to have to crawl,” she said after they exchanged one final snicker. When she rolled away, his hands discharged from her hips at the last possible moment with an air of reluctance.
“And you will never take me seriously ever again,” he said, watching as she easily returned to her feet.
“Don’t worry—I never did.”
He pushed himself up and eased into a seat, saying, “Think I’ll just watch you.”
She pushed off, gaining speed and momentum and transferring it into graceful pivots.
She was aware of his eyes on her body, following every movement—appreciating what he was seeing.
Appreciating her. His expression didn’t change when she stumbled or didn’t complete a turn, nor did he seem to get bored.
It felt good—to be seen. To be appreciated. Even when she made a mistake. It felt good, she acknowledged, to be seen by him specifically.
With that acknowledgment leaving her all kinds of unraveled, she skated back over to where he’d pulled himself to dry land. “Okay, that’s enough—let’s hunt a witch.”