Chapter 1 #2
I don't mention that I've been sending every spare dollar home.
That I've been living off table scraps most nights so I can transfer more money.
That the thought of my parents losing their house keeps me awake some nights, staring at the ceiling of my too-nice apartment, feeling guilty for living in luxury while they struggle.
He doesn't need to know that. He's already been more than generous—paying me well above market rate for a live-in nanny, giving me health insurance, making sure the apartment over the garage has everything I could possibly need.
His expression does something complicated—concern mixing with something darker, something that looks almost like possessiveness. "Still. You shouldn't have to work on Christmas. You've been amazing with Lilliana, and I don't want you to feel taken advantage of."
"I don't," I say honestly. Then, because I can't help myself: "I love spending time with her. With both of you."
The words hang in the air between us, heavier than they should be. His eyes lock on mine, and for a breathless moment, I think he might—
But then he clears his throat and looks away. "Thank you," he says, his voice rough. "For everything. You're... you're really good with her. Better than any nanny we've had." He meets my eyes again. "You're different."
Different how? I want to ask. Different because I'm competent? Or different because there's this thing between us that neither of us can acknowledge?
But I don't ask. Instead, I step back toward the door, putting safe distance between us. "I should get back to Lilliana. Those cookies won't bake themselves."
"Maren," He stops, seeming to reconsider whatever he was about to say. "Yeah. Go ahead. I'll be down in a bit."
I flee before I do something stupid like close the distance between us and find out if his mouth tastes as good as I imagine.
By evening, the storm is well and truly here.
The wind howls around the barn's solid frame, rattling windows, and snow swirls past the massive windows in thick, hypnotic curtains.
But inside, it's warm and glowing—a fire crackling in the river-stone fireplace that dominates one wall, the smell of woodsmoke and pine filling the air.
The Christmas tree stands in the corner of the great room, still bare, and after we finish dinner, Henry suggests we decorate it.
"Really?" Lilliana's eyes go wide. "We were going to wait for Grandma and Grandpa!"
"I think we should do it tonight," Henry says, his eyes meeting mine over her head. "Make our own traditions."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at that our. Like I'm part of this. Part of them.
We spend the next hour transforming the tree. Henry lifts Lilliana up to place ornaments on the higher branches, while I work on the lower ones. Christmas music plays softly from the expensive sound system hidden in the walls, and snow continues to fall outside like we're inside a snow globe.
It's perfect. Painfully, beautifully perfect.
"This one's my favorite," Lilliana says at one point, holding up a glittery snowflake ornament that's clearly been handled by small fingers for years—the glitter is half rubbed off. "Daddy bought it my first Christmas. I was just a baby."
"You were," Henry confirms softly, and there's so much tenderness in his voice it makes my throat tight. "You were three months old and screaming your head off every time I tried to put you down. I had to hold you in one arm while I decorated the tree with the other."
Lilliana giggles. "And I was a loud baby, right?"
"The loudest." But he's smiling, genuine and warm, and god, he's devastatingly handsome like this—all soft edges and open affection.
I have to look away, blinking back unexpected tears.
This man raised a baby alone from three months old.
Some woman from a one-night stand showed up at his door, handed him an infant, said "I can't do this," and walked away forever.
And he just... stepped up. Built a successful architecture firm from home so he could be there for every moment—every middle-of-the-night cry, every first word, every scraped knee.
Never dated seriously because Lilliana came first, always.
And somehow, against all odds, he's raised the sweetest, most well-adjusted kid I've ever met.
It kills me that I can't be part of this family. Not really. Not the way I want to be.
"Maren?" Lilliana's voice pulls me back. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, sweetie." I force a smile. "Just thinking about how beautiful the tree looks."
She beams and goes back to hanging ornaments, and I catch Henry watching me with an unreadable expression. Like he knows exactly what I was really thinking about.
After the tree is done, we collapse on the plush leather couch to admire our work.
Henry puts on The Muppet Christmas Carol, and Lilliana settles between us with a bowl of the cookies we made earlier.
The lights from the tree cast everything in a soft, warm glow, and outside the storm rages, but in here, we're safe. Cozy. Together.
I'm so screwed.
Halfway through the movie, I feel a small weight against my shoulder. Lilliana's fallen asleep, her head tucked against me, one hand still loosely holding a half-eaten cookie.
Henry notices at the same time I do. "Out like a light," he murmurs, and his voice is so soft, so fond, it makes my heart squeeze.
"Long day," I whisper back, afraid to move and wake her.
He stands carefully, and I shift so he can scoop Lilliana into his arms. She doesn't even stir, just curls into his chest with a soft sigh that's so trusting it breaks something open in my chest.
Watching him carry her, seeing the tenderness on his face as he looks down at his daughter, does something to my insides that I'm pretty sure is illegal in several states. This is what I want. This man, this child, this life. All of it.
And I can't have any of it.
He disappears down the hall to her room, and I take the opportunity to clean up—gathering cookie crumbs into my palm, folding the cashmere throw blanket Lilliana kicked off, straightening the accent pillows.
Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off the fact that I'm alone with Henry in this beautiful house while a blizzard rages outside.
When he returns, I'm in the kitchen rinsing the cookie plate at the farmhouse sink. The kitchen is dimly lit now, just the under-cabinet lighting casting a warm glow, and I can see snow swirling past the dark windows.
"You don't have to do that."
I jump, nearly dropping the plate. He moves so quietly for such a big man—must be all those years of trying not to wake a sleeping baby.
"I don't mind," I say, not looking at him. If I look at him right now, standing in this dim kitchen with the storm howling outside and Lilliana safely asleep, I'll do something stupid. I can feel it building in me like the snow piling up outside.
He's quiet for a long moment, and I'm hyperaware of him standing there in the archway, watching me. The air feels charged, electric. Like the moment before lightning strikes.
"Maren."
His voice is rough, and against my better judgment, I turn.
He's looking at me with an intensity that makes my knees weak. His jaw is tight, his hands shoved in his pockets like he doesn't trust himself.
For a second, I think he's going to cross the kitchen. I think he's going to back me against this marble counter and kiss me until I can't remember my own name. I think—
"Goodnight, Maren."
And just like that, the moment shatters like ice.
"Goodnight," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy.
He turns and walks away, his broad shoulders tense, and I'm left standing there with my hands in dishwater and my heart in pieces.
My apartment is in the converted loft above the garage—separate from the main house but connected by a covered walkway that keeps me out of the worst of the weather.
It's nicer than anywhere I've ever lived: exposed brick walls original to the barn, a king-sized bed with expensive linens that probably have a thread count higher than my credit score, a bathroom with a rainfall shower and heated floors, a kitchenette I never use because Henry insists I eat with them.
The heat works perfectly, unlike my last three apartments where I wore two sweaters indoors all winter. There's even a gas fireplace I can control with a remote.
It gives me privacy, which was supposed to be a good thing. Right now it just feels lonely.
I get ready for bed on autopilot, my mind replaying every moment of the day. The way Henry kept finding excuses to come to the kitchen. The softness in his eyes when he looked at me during tree decorating. That charged moment just now where I could have sworn he was going to kiss me.
I'm kidding myself.
He's my employer. He's fifteen years older than me; thirty-eight to my twenty-three. And he's a single dad who's been raising his daughter alone. He's spent seven years being careful about who he lets into their lives, protecting Lilliana from being abandoned again.
Getting involved with the nanny? Not a good choice.
We're from different worlds. I need to remember that.
I want him with an intensity that scares me.
I want his hands on me, his mouth on mine.
I want to know what he tastes like, sounds like, feels like when he lets go of that iron control.
I want him to look at me the way he looked at me tonight and actually follow through.
I want to wake up in his bed and make breakfast for Lilliana and be part of this family for real.
I crawl into bed and pull the covers up to my chin, listening to the wind howl. We're going to be trapped here together. Snowed in. Just the three of us.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from my mom: How's the weather there? Stay safe, honey. Love you.
I send back a quick response with a heart emoji, then make the mistake of checking my bank account. The transfer I sent last week cleared. My balance: $47.32.
I set my phone aside and close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come. All I can think about is Henry in the main house, probably lying in his bed right now, maybe thinking about me the way I'm thinking about him.
Or maybe not. Maybe I'm reading into things that aren't there. Maybe he really does just see me as the nanny, someone good with his kid, nothing more.
I hope not.
Maybe he really does love me, and even this sad nanny will get her Christmas miracle.