Chapter 18 #2
She breezes past, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine, sending a jolt through me. I bite back a groan. If she keeps looking at me like that, I won’t survive the morning.
I set the tray of cinnamon rolls onto two pads on the coffee table. Gran grins up at me from her seat by the fire, her eyes twinkling with mischief. Never a good sign.
“What are you up to?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“Oh, nothing.” She leans back, far too innocent, stretching like a cat in the sun. “Why don’t you make sure that witch of yours doesn’t forget the whipped cream and marshmallows?”
My witch. The way Gran says it—casual, like Hazel already belongs to me—makes my chest squeeze. I want her to belong. I want her in my arms, in this family, in my life. Forever.
But Gran’s look makes suspicion prickle. What is she plotting?
I turn back toward the kitchen and nearly collide with Hazel. She’s balancing Gran’s mug, topped precariously with a mountain of whipped cream that threatens to topple at any second.
“Hi,” she breathes, cheeks flushing pink as she looks up at me—then above me.
My gaze follows hers, and then I see it.
“Mistletoe,” I murmur, a low growl curling beneath the word. When the hell did that get there?
“Mistletoe,” she echoes, voice hushed, before her eyes flick back to mine. There’s a spark there—nervous, yes, but also hungry. “It’s tradition.”
The world shrinks to just the two of us. My pulse roars in my ears as I lean in, slow, giving her every chance to pull away. Our lips barely brush, but the taste of her—sweet, warm, intoxicating—sets my senses on fire. My bear rumbles with satisfaction, desperate for more.
“Get a room,” Nathan crows from behind us.
Hazel jerks back, and I curse under my breath, the moment shattered. But her eyes stay locked on mine—wide, wild, wanting. That kiss, small as it was, was nothing like our first mistletoe kiss. No hesitation this time. No doubt. Only need.
And goddess, I want it again.
“I’m going to murder you,” I growl under my breath as Nathan swipes the cup from Hazel’s hands and squeezes past us, smirking like the menace he is.
Hazel’s cheeks are scarlet, but her lips are still parted, breath coming quick. I take in the sight of her, committing it to memory. Because if I have anything to do with it, that won’t be the last kiss we share under mistletoe.
We turn around and head to the living room. Gran is waiting—of course she is. She has that look—half-innocent, half-victorious—that means she set up the mistletoe trap on purpose.
“Well,” Gran says, eyes darting between Hazel and me. “That took a while. Did you two get… held up?”
“We, uh, ran into Nathan.”
“So he said,” Gran replies, lifting her mug with a serene smile, though her eyes sparkle. “Perfect. With whipped cream. And marshmallows. You’re a good listener, dear.”
Hazel’s shoulders relax a little under the praise, though I see the way her fingers tighten around the hem of her sweater. She doesn’t like being the center of attention. Not yet.
I do, however, love the way her cheeks glow when she’s flustered.
“Watch it, Hazel,” Nathan pipes up from the armchair, already halfway through his second cinnamon roll. “Gran’s going to replace you as the favorite grandchild if you keep showing us up.”
I lunge for one of the throw pillows and hurl it at his head. He ducks, cackling, crumbs scattering everywhere.
“Grow up,” I mutter, but my ears burn. Hazel’s blush deepens, and I swear Nathan is going to pay for that.
“I’m not—”
“Just ignore Nathan. We’ll get our plates and then open presents,” I say, placing a hand at the small of her back and guiding her to the double seat before sitting next to her.
“But I didn’t bring anything,” she protests, taking the plate I offer before piling on bacon, eggs, and cinnamon rolls.
She needs to replenish her strength. Feed her.
“Here, let me.” I grab the plate of fruit that’s just out of her reach and bring it closer.
“Thank you,” she says, spooning some onto her plate.
Mom and Dad come in from the kitchen—Mom carrying both their drinks—and settle next to one another. Nathan inhales his food before plopping down at the foot of the tree, where dozens of presents gleam beneath silver and blue wrapping.
“Gran, this one’s for you,” Nathan offers, handing her a neatly wrapped package. She peels back the paper to reveal a fuzzy sweater, delight lighting her eyes.
“Here you go, Hazel.” Nathan tosses the next package my way, and I catch it easily before handing it to her.
She blinks, startled. “Oh, you really shouldn’t have,” she whispers, her voice a little thick as she carefully unwraps the small frame. Inside is one of Mom’s paintings—the frozen lake at dusk, ringed by pines, a red cardinal caught midflight.
Hazel’s breath hitches. A single tear slips down her cheek, and something tightens painfully in my chest.
“After Benjamin mentioned how much you admired the paintings upstairs,” Mom says softly, “I thought it would make a good housewarming gift.”
Hazel smiles up at her, the kind of smile that radiates warmth all the way across the room. “It’s perfect.”
Nathan, of course, barrels on—handing out gifts to Mom, Dad, Gran, and me, unwrapping his own in between. Even though we’re all grown, Mom insists on keeping the tradition alive: sitting together, opening one by one, the tree glowing in the corner.
Then Nathan gets to the last box. Mine. Hazel’s. He tosses it my way with a smirk.
“This one’s from me,” I murmur, setting it in her hands.
She takes her time—pulling at the ribbon, smoothing the paper before finally tearing it away. When she lifts the lid, her soft gasp makes my heart stutter.
Inside are the fleece-lined white wool gloves I’d seen in town—the ones that made me think of her immediately.
“Benjamin, they’re beautiful,” she breathes, sliding them on and flexing her fingers.
I can’t stop the grin tugging at my mouth. “I remembered how cold your hands get—and how you’re always forgetting gloves.” My voice comes out sheepish, but inside I’m bracing against the swell of want crashing through me.
Her gloved hand brushes mine as I reach to gather scraps of wrapping paper, and the touch sparks through me like lightning.
“It’s the perfect gift,” she says softly.
I glance down at her—blue and blonde hair spilling over her shoulder, sweater snug against her curves, her smile brighter than the Christmas lights flickering on the mantle—and I know.
I’m done for. Absolutely, completely done for.
When she stands and rises onto her toes, pressing her lips softly to mine, the whole room fades. My hands move instinctively, sliding around her waist, anchoring her to me, pulling her closer as though I could hold her forever.
“Merry Christmas, Benjamin. Thank you.”
I rest my lips against her temple, breathing her in, my heart hammering like it wants out of my chest.
“Merry Christmas, sugarplum.”
Hours later, after taking Hazel home, her fingers still intertwined with mine, I made the cold trip back to the house.
It’s quiet.
I’ve never noticed how quiet it is until Hazel’s bright, beautiful presence walked into my life.
“Back so soon?” Nathan teases as I walk in the back door. “I figured we wouldn’t see you for days.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, peeling off my scarf and throwing it at him.
“She’s such a sweet girl. You should invite her over more often, Benjamin,” Mom says, snagging the scarf from Nathan and hanging it on a peg by the door.
“I don’t know if—”
“If you’re about to say you don’t know if she feels the same way you do, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” Gran cuts in as she hobbles into the kitchen.
Meddling polar bear women.
I can’t say I disagree with them. Why are you holding back? She clearly wants us as much as we want her.
“I’m heading to bed. It’s been a long day.” My voice comes out rough—gruffer than I mean it to—but if I stay downstairs one more minute, I’ll unravel in front of them all.
Outside, the sky bleeds in bruised purples and fading streaks of gold, the horizon sinking into night. I stare for a beat too long, then turn away and stomp up the stairs, each step heavier than the last.
The door slams shut behind me with a kick of my boot. I don’t bother stripping down, just throw myself across the bed like I can outrun the ache in my chest.
Her scent hits me immediately—butterscotch and cookies, that faint note of something uniquely her. It clings to the sheets, the pillows, to me. I bury my face in the fabric and inhale like a starving man, clutching at the memory of her warmth, her lips soft against mine.
The ride to her place replays in my mind, every second of silence louder than words. Her hand had been small in mine, grounding me, tethering me to something I didn’t know I needed so badly. And yet when we pulled into her driveway, she didn’t ask me in. Didn’t ask me to stay.
She’d stood on her toes, kissed my cheek, and wished me a safe drive home. That was it.
And I let her go.
Nor did you try to convince her to stay.
The thought slices through the quiet. My jaw tightens. My chest burns.
“She has a job. A life.” I mutter the words aloud like saying them makes them true, makes them a reason instead of a coward’s excuse.
But the truth? The words that had been on my tongue, raw and desperate, were nothing like that.
I don’t want to leave. I don’t want you away from me. Stay.
They’d burned there, heavy and urgent, long before she even whispered goodnight. I’d wanted to say them from the second we left my family’s house—when her fingers brushed mine and I realized how wrong it felt to let go.
So why didn’t you?
Because if I say it—if I put it out there—there’s no taking it back. No undoing the claim. And if she doesn’t feel it too…
I huff a sigh, sharp and bitter, pressing my palms against my eyes. The ceiling blurs when I drop my hands, folding them behind my head.
Sleep doesn’t come easy—not with her scent haunting me, not with the echo of her laugh caught in my chest, not with the ghost of her lips still warm on my skin.
It takes forever to finally drift off, and even then, I dream of her.