Chapter 15
HAZEL
The tires crunch over pine needles and gravel as we cross through the gate with its large Oakwood Farms placard. Was it really only a few days ago I’d driven up here in my beat-up BMW, looking for a Christmas tree?
I’d never imagined I’d be back now—spending Christmas here instead of alone at home.
Benjamin comes around the side of the truck, opens my door, and offers a hand. I let him help me down. Before I can say anything, I’m pulled into a crushing hug that smells like cloves and honey. A tall, well-built woman releases me and holds me at arm’s length, her face split into a bright smile.
“Hazel! It’s so good to finally meet you,” says the woman who can only be Benjamin’s mother. She has his pale complexion and blonde hair, but instead of stormy-blue eyes, hers are a warm hazel.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Oakwood.”
“Please, call me Ruth. Now let’s get you both inside, out of the cold. I just made some eggnog.”
She gestures toward the house, and Benjamin falls into step beside me—my bag slung over his shoulder, box of candies under one arm, and Pretzel curled up in the palm of his free hand.
I take Pretzel, tucking him against my chest, and Benjamin places a warm hand at the small of my back as we make our way toward the front door.
“Eggnog sounds delicious. It’s one of my favorites. We used to make it every Christmas Eve.”
I hold my breath, waiting for the ache of loss to strike—but it doesn’t. Instead, I just feel Benjamin’s steady presence as I cross the threshold into the warmth of his home.
“Good. I like a girl who knows what she likes,” a dry, teasing voice calls from a plush chair near the fire.
“Gran,” Benjamin groans, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Don’t just make her stand there in the doorway. Go get her settled in. I’m sure she wants to wash up after the long drive from town.”
She pushes herself up just as two men—Benjamin’s father and brother, by the looks of them—enter the room. The younger one’s smile could charm the sugar off a candy cane.
“Well, this must be Benjamin’s little witch,” he says, stepping forward. “I’m Nathan.”
He extends his hand, but instead of shaking mine, he pulls me into a tight hug and—sniffs me. Then he releases me with a grin. “I called it.”
“Called what?”
“He’s just being an ass,” Benjamin mutters, voice low. “Why don’t you go make yourself useful?”
“I’m more than happy to give—Hazel was it?—a tour of the house,” Nathan offers, wiggling his eyebrows until Gran’s cane smacks him across the shins.
“Leave Benny alone and go bring in more wood for the fire. My bones are telling me there’s going to be another snowfall tonight.” She makes her way toward the kitchen. “Now, you two bring that box of treats in here, and then you can get Hazel settled in the Opal Room. It has the best view.”
“The Opal Room?” I echo, following Benjamin as he heads into the kitchen, sets the box from the candy shop on the counter, and gestures for me to follow him up a steady set of stairs.
“There are a dozen rooms upstairs, not including the master suite or the two bedrooms on the main level. When I was a kid, Mom and Gran decided to remodel every single one with a different theme.”
I smile as the stairs give a small creak under his weight. It’s such a homey sound, reminding me of sneaking down to the kitchen at night when Mom had made cookies the evening before.
“That’s a lot of rooms. How many family members live here?” I ask as we reach the top of the landing. My boots whisper on the polished floor, and my eyes trace the row of framed oil portraits hanging between doors.
“Right now it’s just me, my parents, Nathan, and Gran,” he replies, waving a hand toward the hallway. “Mom and Dad wanted more kids, but it never worked out after the two of us.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, though the roughness at the edges of his voice tells me otherwise.
We move down the hall; the house feels lived-in in a way that’s comforting. We pause at the third door on the right. Before he can say anything, the question slips out of me, unfiltered.
“Do you want children?”
The words are out before I can stop them. I slap a hand over my mouth because—of course—I said it out loud.
He freezes, hand on the doorknob, and turns to look at me. For a second, the hallway narrows to the space between us, the picture frames blurring into a line of distant witnesses.
Good going, Hazel. You barely know the man and you’re asking about children?
“Children?” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word, weighing it. “I—” He looks surprised, then something like honesty softens his face. “I like children. One day I’d like to have kids. You?”
“Yes,” I manage. “One day.”
The admission feels startlingly whole in my chest. I meet his eyes, and his smile is small and private. He releases the knob and pushes open the door.
“This is the Opal Room,” he says, stepping aside like a gentleman. “If you don’t like it, you can move rooms.”
I step past him, and my breath nearly leaves me.
The room is warm with the kind of comfort that doesn’t shout—a four-poster queen bed draped in cream silk, a pile of pillows like a small snowy mountain, a thick cream comforter folded at the foot.
I trail my fingers over the embroidered snowflakes that glint with iridescent thread, catching the light.
A matching wooden armoire and vanity sit opposite the bed, and above the vanity hangs another oil painting: a white bear curled in a meadow beneath towering pines dusted with snow.
The curtains at the massive window are soft cream, almost buttery, and the whole room smells faintly of cedar and something floral—familiar, though I can’t place why.
“This is gorgeous,” I breathe, moving from the bed to the armoire as if I might discover the secret that makes it all feel so right.
“Who did this—and the painting outside the room?” I set Pretzel down on the dresser and take in the artwork.
My fingers skim the frame, as if touching it will let me hold a piece of the scene.
“Mom did,” he answers, pride threaded through his words. “There are more down the hall and downstairs if you want to see them.”
“I’d love that,” I reply, turning back to the painting.
The brushstrokes feel alive—you can almost smell the pine and hear the hush of snow in the artist’s work.
“I used to do photography. I haven’t in a while.
Not since my parents… But this, I can imagine walking into that forest.” My voice trails off, fragile.
“Polar bears don’t live here in the Pacific Northwest, but your mom caught something in this painting. The light feels true.”
He snorts softly, and I spin around, cheeks hot. “What did I say?” I ask, embarrassed.
“Nothing,” he murmurs. Then he steps closer, each movement deliberate. There’s a quiet gravity to him now, like he’s crossing a line he hasn’t before. He cups my cheek in his palm, thumb tracing the seam of my lips.
Heat coils deep in my ribs at the contact.
The ordinary world—the distant ticking of a clock, the thin hush of the house—narrows until it’s just the two of us and the clean, winter-sweet scent of the room.
My breath comes shallow. I lean toward his hand without meaning to, drawn to the warmth, to his touch.
“I like that you notice things,” he rumbles, voice low.
His thumb brushes my lips again, the movement confident, intimate, impossible to ignore.
My pulse thuds loudly in my ears, and somewhere under that sound a small, fierce want flares.
I want to tell him everything—that I’ve replayed his mouth against mine until I could map it in the dark, that I’ve thought about him in every waking moment and in my dreams—but the words catch in my throat.
“Benjamin,” I start to say, but he silences me with a smile that’s half amusement, half hunger. Then, slow as nightfall, his mouth finds mine.
It’s not tentative. It’s not polite. It’s every small, unspoken admission in one motion: the way his palm fits my jaw, the press of his body close enough to feel the shape of him, the weight of his intent.
Time stumbles; the room tilts. The painting watches, our only witness, and for a moment I am utterly, entirely awake to him.
When we break apart, our foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, and the hallway outside feels a long way off. My pulse steadies in a way it hasn’t in years—but a clatter and the murmur of voices downstairs break through my thoughts.
“Your mom said there was eggnog?” I whisper, ridiculous and breathless, and he laughs.
“Yeah, she makes it every year. Although it’s not my favorite—I much prefer hot cocoa,” he replies, brushing his lips along mine like a promise. “But right now? I’m thinking more about kissing you, if you’d like that.” His eyes darken.
I meet his gaze, and it’s so intense, so focused on me, I forget how to breathe. His hand comes up, fingers rough and warm as his thumb grazes my lower lip. My pulse stutters. Heat blooms low in my belly, spreading until my thighs clench on instinct. I should look away, but I can’t.
“I like kissing you,” I whisper, as if it’s a secret only the two of us can share.
His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile, before he dips his head and claims my mouth. The kiss is slow at first—teasing, tasting—pulling me in until I’m dizzy with want. Then it deepens, hungry, and my fingers fist his flannel as if I can anchor myself against the storm he stirs inside me.
A low growl rumbles from his chest, vibrating against my lips, and I gasp. The sound alone makes me ache, and when he takes advantage, sliding his tongue against mine, I melt into him. He presses me back against the edge of the vanity, caging me with his body.
“Benjamin—” I breathe his name like a prayer, a warning, I don’t even know which.