Chapter 5 #2
She told herself it was harmless, that Riley was just trying to be helpful.
But another, quieter thought crept in—her family would notice.
They would see Riley carrying trays, touching silverware, fumbling lightly with the coffee pot, and immediately assign her some lesser, servile role, even if she were Elizabeth’s “girlfriend.”
Elizabeth suppressed a sigh and turned her attention to her own breakfast plate, reminding herself that appearances had always mattered more than comfort, more than propriety.
And yet, watching Riley, so earnest, so determined to do the right thing in her own messy way, Elizabeth couldn’t help but feel a twinge of admiration.
There was something disarming in Riley’s chaotic competence, something human that no amount of silver-spoon refinement or family expectation could replicate.
Riley’s head tilted slightly as she balanced the coffee and juice, her brows furrowed in concentration, and Elizabeth felt the oddest mix of protectiveness and… something else.
And for a second, Elizabeth let herself picture it, the version of this holiday that wasn’t a lie.
Waking up to Riley because they lived together.
Riley in her robe because it was hers. Riley making her laugh over burnt toast or letting her cold feet invade the bed.
Riley fitting into the cracks of Elizabeth’s life not because she’d been paid to, but because she’d wanted to.
She pressed her fingers into the base of her espresso cup, grounding herself in porcelain and heat.
No. Stop.
This wasn’t real. It wasn’t a fantasy to indulge.
Riley turned back, catching her watching, and raised an eyebrow. “What? Did I put the mugs in the wrong place? Because if this family is strictly a juice-on-the-outside cult, I’m going to need someone to write that down.”
Elizabeth felt a smile tug at her mouth, involuntary. “You’re fine.”
“You sure? You’re giving me your CEO face. Like you’re planning a hostile takeover of my cutlery choices.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but her chest warmed. “Just… keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Look at that. Approval from the boss,” Riley said, mock-saluting her before disappearing behind the dining chairs.
Elizabeth watched her go, that stupid robe trailing behind her like it belonged there.
Maybe it did.
And maybe that terrified her more than anything.
The dining room gleamed with cold elegance, polished silver, crystal glassware, holly-trimmed china that hadn’t seen the light of day since last Christmas.
A fire crackled in the massive hearth, casting a golden glow over the twelve-foot tree in the corner, every branch meticulously decked in red and gold.
It was the kind of holiday perfection that had taken years of family orchestration to master. And Elizabeth felt nothing.
Nothing, except the heat of Riley’s thigh pressed against hers under the table. That, she couldn’t ignore.
Riley was sitting straight for once, trying her best not to fidget in the elegant, high-backed chair beside her. Her hair was half-tamed, her sweater slightly too bright for the subdued Hale aesthetic, and she’d managed to sneak a cinnamon roll onto her plate between caviar blinis and poached eggs.
She looked like a misplaced ornament in the middle of a symmetrical tree, and somehow, she made the whole thing better.
Elizabeth slid her hand under the white linen tablecloth and let her fingers rest gently on Riley’s knee.
It was supposed to be part of the act. A casual display of intimacy for the family audience.
But her fingers lingered longer than necessary.
Just the light press of her hand, the heat of Riley beneath her palm.
Riley went stiff beside her.
Elizabeth didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her skin buzzed. Her pulse was suddenly, unreasonably loud in her ears.
Margot, across the table, was mid-sentence, gesturing with her mimosa. “…and of course, the house in Saint-émilion needs renovations, but Julian says it’s the wrong season to deal with French contractors.”
Julian made a grumbling noise, not even looking up from his phone.
Annette Hale, seated like a queen at the head of the table, cut her brioche with surgical precision. “You should’ve planned ahead,” she said. “It’s not as though winter is a surprise.”
Riley, possibly to deflect the tension, turned to Elizabeth and whispered, “So… what exactly is a blini?”
Elizabeth almost smiled.
But then: “So, Riley,” Margot said sweetly, voice slicing through the chatter like polished glass, “how did you and Elizabeth meet?”
The table quieted slightly. Just enough to feel the pause.
Riley’s eyes widened, briefly, beautifully, and then she fumbled, her fork tapping the edge of her plate. “Oh! Um. Well…”
“We met through work,” Elizabeth said smoothly, cutting in with a practiced smile. “We worked together for months, but then, it just became more.”
Riley turned to her in subtle gratitude, and Elizabeth let her hand slide slightly further down her leg under the table. A quiet, unspoken reassurance.
“Isn’t that a bit unethical?” Julian drawled, not looking up.
“Only if you assume I can’t separate professional from personal,” Elizabeth said. Her voice was level, composed. “Which I can.”
There was a beat of silence. Elizabeth lifted her water glass and took a sip.
Annette dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Well. It’s just so… delightful to have Riley here for the holidays. We weren’t sure if you’d be bringing anyone.” Her tone was almost polite. Almost.
Elizabeth’s fingers curled slightly against Riley’s knee. Riley’s hand brushed hers, gently, almost imperceptibly, under the table. A squeeze. A wordless I’m fine.
But Elizabeth wasn’t.
She hated the way the lie sat in her mouth now.
Hated how easy it had become to deliver.
She was used to deception as a tool, strategy, control, public image.
But something about lying here, in this room, with Riley’s warmth beside her and her perfume lingering faintly in the air… it suddenly felt heavier.
The act had become too convincing. Or maybe it wasn’t an act anymore.
Because the way Riley looked at her now, like she knew how Elizabeth took her coffee, like she saw through the cracks even Elizabeth had forgotten were there, it didn’t feel rehearsed.
And the way Elizabeth’s hand still rested on Riley’s knee? That was no longer about optics.
This is just strategy, she told herself. You’re keeping control. You’re managing the narrative.
Except it didn’t feel like control.
It felt like chaos. Slow, creeping chaos, curling under her skin in quiet, golden heat.
Someone at the far end of the table made a joke. Laughter rippled through the cousins. Toasts were raised. Silverware clinked gently on porcelain.
Riley leaned in, her voice low near Elizabeth’s ear. “Thank you for that. I panicked for a second and almost said we met in a Trader Joe’s parking lot.”
Elizabeth let out a breath, part relief, part amusement. “You’re welcome.”
Riley nudged her lightly with her elbow. “You still have your hand on my leg.”
“I’m aware.”
Another beat. The fire crackled. The world narrowed to the tiny pocket of warmth between them.
“You’re playing this a little too well,” Riley murmured, just quiet enough for Elizabeth to hear.
Elizabeth turned to her, eyes sharp. “You’re the one who charmed the pastry chef.”
Riley grinned. “I’m extremely likable. It’s part of the con.”
Elizabeth didn’t smile back. Not this time. Because her heart was thudding too loudly in her ears and everything in her felt wrong. Wrong in a way that meant danger. Wrong in a way that felt like wanting.
She looked at Riley, really looked at her.
Messy hair. Freckles across her cheeks. That stupid, easy grin.
This isn’t real, she reminded herself.
But her hand stayed exactly where it was.
And her lie suddenly felt like the most honest thing she’d ever said.
The fire had burned low, glowing embers pulsing with gentle heat.
Most of the family had retired for the night, leaving behind the faint scent of pine, brandy, and expensive perfume.
The great room had gone quiet except for the occasional crackle from the hearth and the soft clink of mugs on coasters.
Elizabeth sat curled at one end of the oversized couch, legs crossed, half a blanket draped across her lap.
Her mug of hot chocolate, generously spiked with brandy, rested in one hand, the steam curling around her face.
She should’ve gone upstairs. She should’ve made some polite excuse and vanished behind the safety of her bedroom door.
But Riley was still here.
And Elizabeth didn’t want to leave her.
Riley was sprawled out comfortably, back against a pillow, her legs stretched across the couch, her socked feet resting, almost carelessly, in Elizabeth’s lap.
A blanket covered them both. Her curls were pulled into a loose bun that had mostly fallen out, and she held her mug in both hands like it was the only source of heat she trusted.
She looked tired, but in a warm, glowing kind of way. Happy. Settled.
Like she belonged.
Elizabeth’s fingers moved almost of their own accord, her palm resting lightly on Riley’s ankle, thumb tracing small circles against the soft fabric of her socks.
It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even conscious. Just a small, intimate motion, absentminded. A comfort.
But it might as well have been a confession.
Riley didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look down. Just leaned her head back on the armrest, eyes half-lidded as she sipped her drink and let out a low, contented sigh.
Elizabeth’s heart raced, a slow, deep thrum beneath her ribs. This is dangerous.
She knew it. Every breath of it. The firelight. The warmth. The trust. Riley’s feet in her lap, her easy laughter from earlier, the way she’d hung ornaments like it mattered.
This was a game. A business transaction. A short-term arrangement.
Elizabeth told herself, again, like a mantra: It’s just for show. Just for the trip.
But the thought felt brittle now. Hollow.
Because this, whatever this was, felt better than anything she’d let herself want in years. And not because it was perfect. Not because Riley was poised or polished or came from the right background. She didn’t. God, she didn’t.
But she was real.
And Elizabeth couldn’t remember the last time something in her life had been allowed to be real.
Riley shifted slightly, just enough to nudge her toes deeper under the blanket. She didn’t say a word, but the corner of her mouth lifted, barely.
Elizabeth swallowed hard. Didn’t move her hand.
Didn’t dare.
Because she was starting to want things. And that, more than anything, was terrifying.