5. Claire
Claire
I wake up to my phone buzzing on the nightstand. For a second, I'm disoriented—why am I so warm, why does everything smell like Garth—and then I remember.
Everything. All of it.
I'm tucked against his chest, his arm heavy across my waist, and we're both naked under the covers. Yesterday happened. Last night happened. This morning happened.
My phone buzzes again and I reach for it, trying not to wake him.
FLIGHT ALERT: Your flight AA2847 to Detroit has been rescheduled for 3:00 PM today, December 26th. Please confirm.
I stare at the screen. Today. We can leave today.
I should text my mom, let her know I'm coming. But all I can think about is that in a few hours, we have to leave this bubble we've created and face the real world.
"What is it?" Garth's voice is rough with sleep, his hand sliding up to my hip.
"Flights are back on. Mine's at three."
He's quiet for a moment, and I can practically hear him thinking. Then he takes my phone out of my hand, sets it on the nightstand, and pulls me back down to face him.
"Come to Aspen with me," he says.
I blink. "What?"
"My flight's probably rescheduled too. Come with me. We can spend the rest of the holiday together."
"Garth, I can't just—my mom is expecting me."
"Right. Of course." He kisses my forehead. "Then I'll come to Detroit with you."
I pull back to look at him. "You want to come to Detroit? To meet my mother?"
"Yes."
"The one who criticizes everything about me?"
"Especially her." There's steel in his voice. "Someone needs to be there to tell her she's wrong."
My chest does something complicated. "You can't just tell my mother she's wrong."
"Watch me."
God, I love him. I actually love this grumpy, overprotective, ridiculous man.
"What about Aspen?"
He shrugs. "This is better."
"Spending Christmas with my judgmental family in Detroit is better than a luxury ski resort?"
"Spending Christmas with you is better than anything." He says it matter-of-factly, like it's obvious. "So yes. I'm coming to Detroit."
My chest feels too full. "Okay. But don't say I didn't warn you."
Three hours later, we're at the airline counter. The terminal smells like coffee and cinnamon from a nearby café, and someone's phone is playing holiday music—Mariah Carey's high notes filling the air.
Garth hands over both our confirmation numbers. "I need to cancel my Aspen flight and rebook both of us on the next available flight to Detroit. First class, two seats together."
"Garth, you don't have to—"
"I know. I want to." His hand finds the small of my back. "You hate flying. This way I can hold your hand during takeoff."
The agent gets us on the 3 PM flight, and soon we have new boarding passes and time to kill. We grab coffee and find seats near our gate.
"I should probably warn my mom," I say, pulling out my phone.
Me: Hey, slight change of plans. I'm bringing someone. His name is Garth. We're... together.
Three dots appear immediately.
Mom: WHAT? Who is Garth? How long has this been going on?
Me: It's new. Really new. I'll explain when we get there. Flight lands at 5.
Mom: Claire Marie Abbott, you cannot just spring a man on me—
I silence my phone and shove it in my bag.
"She's going to lose her mind," I tell Garth.
"Good. Keeps her distracted."
When boarding starts, first class is called first, and we settle into seats that are basically recliners. The cabin has that new leather smell mixed with something that might be lavender, and through the window I can see snow still piled on the wings.
"This is insane," I whisper as a flight attendant offers us warm towels. "I could get used to this."
"That's the idea." Garth takes my hand as the engines start. "Look at me."
I do, and his grey eyes are steady, calm.
"Tell me about that house," he says as we start taxiing. "The one with all the Christmas lights."
"The Grinch house?"
"Yeah. What made it so special?"
I focus on him instead of the fact that we're about to launch into the air. "The family went all out. Every year they'd add something new. One year they had a life-size Grinch on the roof. Another year they did this whole Max the dog display in the yard."
We're accelerating now, and my grip tightens on his hand, but I keep talking. "My dad would always slow down when we got close, like we might miss something if we drove past too fast."
We lift off, and I barely notice because I'm lost in the memory of my dad's smile, the way the Christmas lights would reflect in his glasses.
"You did that on purpose," I say when we level off.
"Did it work?"
"Yes. Thank you."
The flight attendant brings lunch, and we eat while watching clouds. I'm still nervous—I hate flying, always will—but having Garth's hand in mine makes it bearable.
When the meal is cleared and most passengers have settled in, Garth leans close.
"I have an idea," he murmurs.
"What kind of idea?"
"The kind that involves the bathroom."
Heat floods through me. "Garth. We can't."
"Why not? We're in first class. No one's paying attention." His thumb traces circles on my inner thigh. "And I want you."
"You had me this morning. Twice."
"I know. Still want you." His hand slides higher. "Come on."
I look around. The other first-class passengers are absorbed in movies or sleeping. The flight attendants are in the galley. And Garth is looking at me like he wants to devour me.
"Two minutes," I whisper. "Then follow."
His smile is wicked.
The first-class bathroom is significantly bigger than coach and very luxurious but it’s still an airplane bathroom. I've barely locked the door when there's a knock.
Garth slips inside, locks it behind him, and immediately pulls me into a kiss.
"We have maybe five minutes," he mutters against my neck.
"Then we better be fast."
He spins me to face the mirror and works my jeans open. Through the mirror, we make eye contact, and there's something so intimate about watching him watch me that I forget to breathe.
"Hold on," he tells me.
I brace my hands on the sink. He pushes my jeans and underwear down just enough, and then he's inside me in one hard thrust.
We both freeze, trying not to make noise. In the mirror, I can see both our faces—his jaw tight with control, my lips parted, both of us flushed.
Then he starts moving, and oh God .
His hand comes around to cover my mouth. "Quiet," he whispers. "Can't let anyone hear you."
The angle is deep, almost too much, and every thrust hits perfectly. I watch us in the mirror—watch him take me, watch the desperate need on both our faces—and it's the hottest thing I've ever seen.
His other hand slides down to work my clit, and I'm trying so hard to stay quiet but it's impossible. I'm whimpering against his palm, my hips pushing back to meet him.
"Look at yourself," he mutters, his breath hot against my ear. "Look how good you take it."
I do, and the sight of us sends me over the edge. I come hard, shaking, his hand muffling my cries. He follows immediately, burying his face in my neck to muffle his own groan.
We stand there for a moment, both breathing hard.
"We're going to get caught if we don’t hurry," I finally whisper.
"Worth it." He pulls out carefully and we make ourselves presentable as best we can.
I slip out first, and the flight attendant gives me a knowing look but says nothing. Two minutes later, Garth slides back into his seat next to me, looking perfectly composed except for the satisfied smirk on his face.
"Best flight of my life," he murmurs.
I take his hand. "Mine too."
We land in Detroit not long after. The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and through the window I can see my city covered in snow.
Home. For better or worse.
My mom is waiting at arrivals, and I spot her before she sees me. She's dressed up, nervous energy radiating off her as she scans the crowd.
Then she sees us. Her eyes go wide when she takes in Garth—tall, handsome, expensive suit, holding my hand.
"Claire!" She hurries over, pulling me into a hug. "Oh honey, you're here! And you must be Garth."
"Mrs. Abbott." Garth extends his hand with that CEO charm. "It's a pleasure."
"Please, call me Susan." She's eyeing him up and down, clearly impressed. "Claire didn't mention she was seeing anyone."
"It's very recent," I say quickly.
"Well." Mom links her arm through mine, steering us toward parking. "You'll have to tell me everything. How did you meet?"
"At work," Garth says. "Claire is my executive assistant."
I tense, waiting for her reaction.
But she just smiles. "How wonderful! And you got snowed in together. How romantic!"
In the car, Mom chatters about tomorrow's plans—dinner, family coming, cousins with their boyfriends. I can see her gearing up for something.
"We'll need to stop by the store tomorrow," Mom says. "I didn't plan for extra people. Claire, honey, you know how much you usually eat at these things—"
"Actually," Garth interrupts smoothly, "I'd love to cook. I insist on making dinner as a thank you for having me."
Mom blinks. "Oh, you don't need to!"
"I want to. Besides, I enjoy cooking for Claire." He squeezes my hand. "She appreciates good food."
I stare at him. He just redirected away from my eating habits while making it sound like a compliment.
"Well, that's lovely," Mom says, sounding confused.
At the house, Mom shows Garth to the guest room separate from mine, like we’re freaking teenagers, and I follow her to the kitchen.
"Claire." She's using her quiet voice. "He's very handsome."
Here it comes.
"I'm just surprised. You never mentioned anyone, and he's so... put-together. You've been working so hard, and I didn't think—I mean, he's very fit and successful, and you've been—"
"I'm going to stop you right there." Garth's voice comes from the doorway. He's leaning against the frame, arms crossed, expression pleasant but eyes like steel. "Susan, I'm sure you mean well, but we need to be very clear about something."
Mom's eyes go wide. "I didn't mean—"
"Your daughter is brilliant." His voice is calm but absolutely firm.
"She's beautiful. She's the most capable person I've ever worked with, and frankly, I'm lucky she gave me a chance.
" He takes a step into the kitchen. "So if you're about to make some comment about her weight or her eating or anything else designed to make her feel less than perfect, this will be the last time I'm in your home. "
The kitchen is dead silent.
Mom's mouth opens and closes. "I'm her mother. I'm concerned about her health!"
"Her health is between her and her doctor." Garth's tone doesn't change. "What's not healthy is a mother who criticizes her daughter every time they're together."
Mom looks at me, hurt flashing across her face. "Claire, are you going to let him speak to me like that?"
"Yeah." My voice is steady. "Yeah, I am. Because he's right, Mom. You do this every holiday. Comments about my weight, what I'm eating, how I should try some diet. And I'm done pretending it doesn't hurt."
Her face crumples. "I just want you to be happy."
"I am happy." I step closer to Garth. "I'm happy with my job. I'm happy with my life. I'm happy with him. But I can't be happy around you if this keeps happening."
Mom is quiet for a long moment, and I can see her struggling. Finally: "I didn't realize it bothered you that much."
"It always has. I just never said anything."
She wipes at her eyes. "Your father used to tell me I was too hard on you. I thought I was helping, but I..." She looks at Garth. "I'm sorry. And thank you. For standing up for her when I haven't."
Garth's expression softens slightly. "She makes it easy."
Later, after Mom's gone to bed, Garth and I are lying in the guest bed together, because we both agreed separate rooms was ridiculous, and I'm tucked against his chest.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For earlier."
"I meant every word." His arms tighten around me. "No one gets to make you feel small. Not even your mother."
"I thought I told you not to defend me."
"I know. I ignored you." I can hear the smile in his voice. "Get used to it."
I kiss him, slow and sweet. "I love you."
"I love you too."
Outside, snow is starting to fall again, and tomorrow we'll have Christmas dinner with my family and it might be awkward, but it'll also be different.
Better.
"Best Christmas ever," I whisper.
He pulls the blanket over us both. "Agreed."
And lying there in his arms, in my childhood home, finally feeling defended and cherished and seen—I believe it.
This is what Christmas is supposed to feel like.