Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Declan
I wake to the faint clatter of dishes and the smell of coffee strong enough to make my pulse start early.
The lights from the tree glow soft against the dark window, the kind of gold that makes everything look gentler.
For a second, I forget where I am, then I see Tarryn standing barefoot in the kitchen, hair twisted in a loose knot, sleeves pushed up, humming along with the carol station on low.
The glow from the stove paints her in amber light, and the sound of her humming feels like something I could wake up to forever.
Then I see Vicky walk out from the back. “Declan.” She smiles broadly. “Merry Christmas. We are so grateful you were able to save the VIP event last night and I’m glad you stayed. You could have slept in a guest room. We have several.”
“Thank you. Tarryn and I were talking into the early hours.”
She pats my arm, and we head into the kitchen. “Are you sticking around today?”
“I’m here to help Tarryn for a bit before I have to go into the station. I’m working the next three days, so one of my buddies can be home with his kids.”
“You’re the kindest man around.”
I blush down to my toes, and I can’t look at her. I feel it’s the right thing to do.
Vickey and I walk into the kitchen, and she beelines it to the coffee pot and pours two cups.
“Morning, couch man,” Tarryn says.
I grin, voice rough. “Morning, boss lady. What time is it?”
“Barely six.” She pours steaming coffee into a mug and slides it across the counter. “You can go back to sleep if you want. I couldn’t.”
“After last night? Not a chance.” I sit down at the breakfast bar and take in my surroundings. The house smells like pine and cinnamon, and everything outside is pure white. We don’t always get a white Christmas, but this year, it’s guaranteed.
We talked for hours about everything going on and how the sabotage goes far beyond burning the cottage down.
She’s convinced her cousin Zach is behind this.
I can’t blame her. I know Zach well and can see how his father could be manipulating him.
It’s bad enough she has to deal with the drama from the Dempsey family but also inside her family.
The Paradises are good people, and I hate to see Tarryn work so hard and still have to deal with this garbage!
She shrugs, cheeks pink from the oven’s warmth—or maybe from me watching her. “It’s Christmas Eve and my brothers and their partners are coming for brunch. They’ll hang out all day. And we’ll have a big dinner together before we go to the children’s Mass at Holy Cross.”
“I’ll help.” I stand, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “What’s the plan?”
She hands me an apron that says Kiss the Cook. “You’re on egg frittata duty. Everyone will be here by nine.”
I tie it on, pretending confidence. “That’s risky, giving me eggs and heat before caffeine.”
“You’re a firefighter. You can handle it.”
“Not before coffee,” I mutter as I drain my cup, and she laughs, low, warm, the sound filling the quiet kitchen.
It’s her parents’ house, but the way she opens cabinets, the ease in her movements, tells me she’s settled back in.
I know she hates not having her own space, but right now, it feels right.
Cozy. Ordinary. The fridge hums softly, and the tree lights flicker against the window as dawn slowly stretches gray over the snow outside.
I grab a bowl, and she hands me three dozen eggs. “You do realize your mom’s going to redo everything the minute she walks in.”
“Probably,” she admits. “But I like cooking when the house is still. It feels like mine for a few minutes.”
That hits me harder than it should. I want to give her that every morning, a kitchen that’s hers, a quiet start that doesn’t vanish when the door opens. I crush the first egg, and I try to dig the shell from the bowl.
“Use the egg shell,” she suggests.
I don’t know what she means, so she takes the bowl and eggs and hands me a brioche loaf. She instructs me to cut it up into bite size pieces and put it in a bowl.
“What are you thinking?” she asks, cracking eggs.
“That I could get used to this.”
She glances over, cautious. “Used to what? Cooking?”
“You,” I say simply. “This. All of it.”
Her hands still. “Declan—”
“I know. We said slow. I’m not rushing you. Just letting you know where I’m at.”
She exhales, setting down the whisk. “And where’s that?”
“All in.”
For a long moment, the only sound is the radio crooning about chestnuts and open fires. She doesn’t run. Doesn’t deflect. Just meets my gaze and nods once, almost imperceptible. “I don’t want to do this halfway either,” she says quietly. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t care.”
The words land heavy and bright all at once.
I’ve spent years chasing flames, but this…
This is the first time I feel something worth staying for.
I don’t just want her. I want mornings like this.
The smell of coffee, the sound of her humming, her laughter breaking against mine.
I want to build a life that doesn’t end when the pager goes off.
“That’s good,” I say softly. “Because I was getting tired of pretending I could.”
She cracks a small smile. “Then we make breakfast like two adults with feelings.”
“And we don’t burn it,” I add, breaking the heaviness.
“Deal.”
We fall into an easy rhythm, me cutting up the bread, green onions, cooking and crumbling bacon and sausage while she breaks the eggs and gets them well scrambled, bumping hips when we reach for the same spice.
The kitchen smells like cinnamon and coffee and something that feels suspiciously like belonging.
Her shoulder brushes mine every few minutes, and each time, it’s harder not to reach for her.
“You always cook on Christmas Eve?” I ask.
“Usually I’m outside managing the parade of siblings. Beckett forgets gifts, Ryker brings the loudest toys for all of us kids, Kingston critiques the wine pairings, and Greyson drinks half the coffee before it’s poured.”
“Sounds peaceful.”
She snorts. “This year will be a little different. Everyone but Kingston will be paired up. And baby Theo will be the center of attention. It’ll be chaos, but I miss it when it’s quiet. This is the first year they’re all coming later. Mom and Dad wanted to do stockings with Theo tonight.”
“Gives us a head start,” I say. “We can make enough food for an army.”
She glances at me sideways. “You always volunteer for kitchen duty?”
“Only when there’s someone worth impressing.”
She smirks. “How’s that going for you?”
I pretend to inspect my knife skills. “Still waiting for feedback.”
She taps her fork against the counter. “You’re doing fine.”
“Fine?”
“Better than fine.”
Her voice softens on the last word, and it feels like the space between us shifts. I reach past her for the pepper grinder, brushing her arm. She doesn’t move away. The radio hums behind us, and light creeps slowly over the snow outside, silvering the edges of her hair.
By eleven, the counter’s covered with food—fruit salad, warm muffins that somehow survived my impatience. The frittata is about ready to come out of the oven, and potatoes are on the stove. She leans against the sink, sipping coffee. “I forgot how good quiet feels,” she says.
“Yeah.” I rest beside her. “You used to fill every silence with something. Music, talking, planning.”
“Guess I finally ran out of plans.”
“I don’t buy that.”
She sighs. “Losing the cottage, the fire, everything—it kind of stripped me down. I don’t know what’s next.”
She wipes the already-clean counter, a habit more than a task, and I see it, the way she needs order, control, safety. The way she straightens the spoon rest twice.
“Maybe that’s the point,” I tell her. “You don’t have to know yet.”
“I hate not knowing.”
“I know. But maybe not knowing’s just making space for better things.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to decide if I mean it. “Since when are you so optimistic?”
“Only before breakfast.”
She laughs, but it fades fast. “What if something else happens? What if it’s all too much?”
“Then we deal with it. Together.”
She’s quiet again, then nods. “Okay.”
I reach for her hand, thumb brushing her wrist. Her pulse is fast.
“Declan,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared of how much I want this.”
I lean closer, voice low. “Me too. But I’m not walking away.”
Her lips part like she wants to say more, but the kettle whistles, sharp and ordinary. We both laugh.
She steps away, pouring hot water for tea. “You ruin the moment with your timing.”
“I’m good at that.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
Her eyes roll again, but she’s smiling.
While she sets the table, I move the generator back to my truck and scrape down the windows.
The storm last night left a crust of frost on everything.
The air bites, sharp and clean. The vines behind the house shimmer white in the half-light, rows of silver ghosts waiting for spring. I clear the steps so no one will fall.
When I come back in, she’s packing up muffins for her mom.
“Everything holding?” she asks.
“Looks good. I need to be back at eight to start my shift.”
She nods, brushing her hands. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re here today.”
I grin. “Good. Because someone’s got to make sure the next fire we deal with is only the one in your oven.”
She laughs, swats my chest. “That’s your one wry joke for the morning.”
“Worth it.”
The front door opens, and Beckett’s voice booms through the hall, followed by Sadie’s laughter. She’s just starting to show that she’s pregnant. I lean over to Tarryn. “Is Sadie pregnant?”
She smiles. “She’s like seventeen or eighteen weeks. My mom has told everyone she meets that she’s expecting another grandchild.”
“I’m glad I asked. I would hate to blurt it out and she not be pregnant.”
“You’re good.”
I had no idea. The house comes alive, every corner filling with warmth and noise.
Tarryn straightens, smoothing her hair. “Here we go.”
“Showtime,” I say.
She grins. “You can still run.”
“Not a chance.”
She looks up at me, something soft in her eyes. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Even with all this chaos?”
“Especially with it.” I used to feel so inferior with all her brothers and at times, maybe I still do, but now, I realize Tarryn doesn’t want a doctor to take care of her.
She wants a partner. Someone who’ll quietly stand beside her and hold her tight while she makes sure the family legacy grows and is profitable.
She shakes her head, smiling as her brothers crowd in with gifts and noise. I slip an arm around her waist for just a second before letting go. Her mom catches my eye from the doorway, gives me a knowing smile, then heads for the coffee.
By the time everyone’s gathered, the kitchen’s a blur of laughter, wrapping paper, and the kind of noise that feels like family. The smell of maple syrup mixes with pine and wood smoke from the hearth. Tarryn moves easily among them, but every now and then her gaze finds mine, steady and sure.
When the meal’s over and the chaos shifts to cleanup, she leans against me, whispering, “You staying for dinner too?”
“I was planning on it, unless you’re sick of me.”
“Not even close.”
“Then I’m in.”
“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I think you’re part of this now.”
Part of this. It lands like a promise.
Later, when the noise has faded and I’m helping her load the dishwasher, I catch her hand.
“What?” she asks, brow lifted.
“Nothing. Just thinking this feels right.”
She tilts her head. “It does.”
She leans up, kisses me lightly, and for once, there’s no rush, no hesitation. Just the warmth of her breath and the quiet certainty that this—right here—is what forever feels like waiting to begin.