Chapter 3 Maren
Maren
Oh my god.
Last night actually happened. He came to my apartment. He kissed me. He touched me. And if Lilliana hadn't woken up, we would have—
My phone buzzes. A text from Henry: Good morning. Lilliana wants pancakes. Join us?
Is he regretting it? Is he going to pretend it didn't happen? How do we act around each other now?
I type back: Be there in 15.
I shower quickly, my body still buzzing with unfulfilled need from last night. When I touch myself in the shower, it takes approximately thirty seconds to come, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning his name.
I wear a Christmas sweater and leave my hair down in loose waves, and add just a touch of lip gloss because I'm weak and I want him to look at my mouth and remember what it felt like to kiss me.
When I walk into the main house through the mudroom entrance, the smell of coffee and bacon hits me first. Then I see them: Lilliana at the table in her Christmas pajamas, chattering away, and Henry at the stove.
He turns when I enter, and our eyes lock across the kitchen. Heat flares between us, immediate and undeniable, and for a moment neither of us moves.
Then Lilliana spots me. "Maren!" She scrambles out of her chair and runs over to hug me. "Look how much snow there is!"
I force myself to look away from Henry and focus on his daughter. "Wow. That's a lot of snow, huh?"
"Can we build a snowman after breakfast?"
"Absolutely."
I risk another glance at Henry. He's watching me with dark eyes, his jaw tight, and I can practically feel the restraint radiating off him. He wants to cross this kitchen and kiss me. I want him to.
But Lilliana's here, so we don't.
"Pancakes are ready," he announces.
We sit down to eat, and it should be normal. We've had breakfast together a hundred times. But everything's different now. Every time our eyes meet, heat flares between us. Even sitting across the table feels too close and not close enough at the same time.
Lilliana, bless her, is completely oblivious. She's too busy planning out our day—snowman building, gingerbread house decorating, a Christmas movie marathon.
"And tonight we have to leave out cookies for Santa," she says seriously. "And carrots for the reindeer."
"Of course," Henry agrees, his lips twitching. "Very important."
She looks between us with those big, earnest eyes. "Do you think Santa will still come even though its snowy?"
"I know he will," Henry assures her. "Santa always knows where to find good kids. And you've been very good this year."
She grins, satisfied, and goes back to her pancakes.
I catch Henry's eye across the table, and something passes between us. Understanding, maybe. Or acknowledgment of what we're protecting by being careful. This little girl who's already lost one mother. She deserves stability, security, people who won't leave her.
And that means Henry and I need to figure out what this is between us before we let Lilliana see it.
We spend the morning outside building the world's lumpiest snowman.
The storm has passed, leaving everything blanketed in pristine white that sparkles under the weak winter sun.
The property looks like something out of a Christmas card—the converted barn with its timber frame and floor-to-ceiling windows, the pine forest dusted with snow, the mountains rising in the distance.
This place is worth millions. I looked it up once, curious. The land alone, with all these acres and the privacy and the views—it's the kind of property people dream about.
And Henry designed and built most of it himself.
Lilliana insists on using a carrot for Bernard the snowman's nose and rocks for his eyes, and when she's busy arranging his stick arms, Henry moves closer to me.
"About last night—" he starts quietly.
"Are you regretting it?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"God, no." He sounds almost offended by the question. "I'm regretting that we got interrupted. I'm regretting that I didn't get to finish what I started." His voice is low and rough. "And tonight, after Lilliana's asleep, you're coming back to my bed."
It's not a question. It's a statement, and the command in his voice makes me clench with need.
"Yes, sir," I say, and his eyes go dark.
"Maren."
"Maren, Daddy, look!" Lilliana's waving us over to admire Bernard.
We spend the rest of the morning building and playing in the snow, and I try very hard not to stare at the way Henry's jeans hug his ass or how his forearms flex when he lifts Lilliana onto his shoulders.
I fail spectacularly.
When he catches me looking, his mouth curves into a slow smile that promises trouble.
The afternoon blurs by in a haze of domestic bliss and sexual tension so thick I could cut it with a knife.
We decorate gingerbread houses—well, Lilliana decorates hers while Henry and I mostly just eat the candy and try not to stare at each other.
We watch Elf curled up on the couch with Lilliana between us, and every time Henry's hand strays close to mine on the back of the couch, my heart races.
This is torture. Sweet, wonderful torture.
Around five, we make dinner together—grilled cheese and tomato soup because it's Lilliana's favorite and easy. Then we let her stay up late to watch The Polar Express, and by the time it's over, she's struggling to keep her eyes open.
"Bedtime, baby girl," Henry says gently.
"But I want to wait up for Santa," she protests through a yawn.
"Santa won't come if you're awake," I remind her. "That's the rule."
She pouts but lets Henry carry her to bed. I clean up the living room, trying to calm my racing heart. He'll come back in a few minutes, and we'll be alone, and I have no idea what happens next.
But when he returns, he looks conflicted.
"She wants you to read to her," he says. "If you don't mind."
"Of course not."
I find Lilliana already tucked in, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit. Her room is decorated with fairy lights and drawings she's made, and my heart squeezes at how much I love this kid.
"Will you read The Night Before Christmas?" she asks, holding up the book.
"I'd love to."
I settle on the edge of her bed and read, doing all the voices, watching her eyes get heavier and heavier. By the time I finish, she's almost asleep.
"Maren?" she murmurs.
"Yeah, sweetie?"
"I'm glad you're here for Christmas. It's better with you."
My throat goes tight. "I'm glad I'm here too."
"I wish you could stay forever," she says, her voice drowsy. "I love you."
Oh god. My eyes sting with tears. "I love you too, Lilliana."
She smiles and snuggles deeper into her pillow, and I sit there for a few more minutes making sure she's really asleep before I slip out of the room.
Henry's waiting in the hallway, and from the look on his face, he heard at least part of that conversation.
"She means it," he says quietly. "When she says she loves you."
"I know. I mean it too."
We stand there in the dimly lit hallway, the space between us charged with everything we're not saying. I should go back to my apartment. Give him space to play Santa, to handle Christmas Eve traditions with his daughter.
But I don't want to leave. I want to stay right here, in this house, with this family. Forever.
"I should let you do the Santa thing," I finally say.
He nods but doesn't move. "Maren—"
"I know." I do know. I can see the war happening behind his eyes—want versus responsibility, desire versus caution. "It's okay."
I slip past him and out into the night. The storm's completely passed, leaving everything blanketed in pristine white that glows under the moon. It's beautiful. Peaceful.
And I'm walking away from the man I want more than my next breath.
Around ten, there's a knock at my door.
My heart leaps into my throat. I pad across the room and open it to find Henry standing there, still fully dressed in jeans and that navy thermal, looking absolutely wrecked.
"Lilliana's asleep," he says, his voice low and rough. "I just spent the last hour playing Santa, arranging presents, and all I could think about was you."
"Henry—"
"I need to know." He steps closer, his eyes intense. "Are we doing this? Because if we are, I need you to understand: I'm all in. This isn't just sex for me, Maren. It's everything. You and me and Lilliana. A family. And if that's not what you want, you need to tell me now before I—"
I grab his shirt and pull him inside, cutting off his words with my mouth on his. He makes a surprised sound that turns into a groan, his hands coming up to frame my face as he kisses me back desperately.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Does that answer your question?" I ask.
His smile is pure relief mixed with hunger. "Yeah. Yeah, it does."
"Good. Now get in here and kiss me again."
He's on me the second the door closes, backing me against the wall, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that's pure need. I moan into his mouth and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
"Been wanting this all day," he growls against my lips. "Watching you in those fucking leggings, that sweater. Do you know what you do to me?"
"Tell me," I gasp as his mouth moves to my neck.
"I wanted to bend you over the kitchen counter this morning. Wanted to pull those leggings down and fuck you." His hand slides down to grip my ass, pulling me against the hard length of him. "I'm a terrible father."
I laugh breathlessly. "You're a very good father. And a very bad man for making me want you this much."
"You have no idea how bad I can be." He chuckles, his teeth scrape over my pulse point, and I shudder. "But you're going to find out." He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with want. "Tell me what you want, Maren. Be specific."
"I want you to fuck me." The words come out bold, shameless. "I want you to make me scream. I want to feel you for days."