Chapter 5
Chapter Five
ROMAN
Willow doesn’t realize how close she drives me to losing control.
One second, I’m teasing her about ordering too many copies of Little Women; the next, I’m leaning over the counter, my mouth a breath from her ear.
Her laptop screen is still warm under my palm, the faint glow fading after she slammed it shut like she was hiding state secrets.
Curiosity digs at me, insistent and alive.
What was she looking at?
Why did she look guilty as hell when I walked in?
Part of me wants to flip it back open and find the truth in her tabs. But the bigger part—the one pulsing in my chest right now—doesn’t care about the laptop. It cares about how her blush spills down her throat and her pulse hammers in her neck.
Her shampoo smells like vanilla and cinnamon, warm and sweet, and it goes straight to my head. If I lean forward just an inch more, I’d know if she tastes the same. If her lips are as soft as they look when she chews on them to hide a smile.
She thinks she hides it. She doesn’t. Ducking her gaze, pretending to fuss with receipts or the garland by the register, like she can will her nerves away. But I see every flush of color, every tremor in her hands, every tiny betrayal of what she won’t say out loud.
When she stammers, her lips part like she’s on the edge of admitting something—something that would undo us both—my heart leaps before my brain can stop it. I want to close the distance. I want to kiss her until all the history between us blurs into something we can’t walk back from.
And maybe I would’ve—if the bell above the door hadn’t chimed.
The sound cracks through the air like a gunshot. Willow bolts, relief etched in every step as she rushes to the front, clinging to the customer like he’s a lifeline.
I stay frozen behind the counter, fists clenched, jaw locked. Because if I don’t hold myself there, I’ll follow her. I’ll do what I’ve wanted to do for longer than I’ll ever admit—something I can’t take back.
Mr. Gibbs comes in, carrying his list of grandchildren, and I retreat—back into the storeroom, back into control. It’s safer this way. For her. For me.
But the truth is, I’m not safe anywhere she is.
Because she has no idea what I give up just to be here.
The construction company is supposed to be my full-time focus. The one I started when I came back from the city, when I finally admitted that drafting skyscrapers no one would ever remember wasn’t worth the pieces of myself I left behind.
It’s growing—fast. Too fast. Calls pour in daily, contracts stacking higher than I can keep track of. I’ve hired good people, a crew I trust, but even with them taking on the bulk of the labor, there aren’t enough hours in the day to cover everything that needs my attention.
And still—I can’t stay away from her. Not at the store. Not when December closes in and the bookstore is bursting at the seams. She pretends she’s fine—stringing lights, hauling boxes, humming carols her mom used to love—but I see the strain.
I see how thin she’s stretched, the shadows under her eyes, the way her shoulders hunch when she thinks no one is watching.
So I carve out time I don’t have. Mornings on job sites, nights here under twinkle lights, shelving books, and fixing whatever she won’t admit is broken.
Because leaving her to carry it all alone? That’s not an option. Not for me.
So I split myself in two. Half my time running crews, sketching estimates, answering clients who don’t care if I eat or sleep.
The other half here—stocking shelves, climbing ladders, fixing whatever breaks before she even has the chance to worry about it.
I trade hard hats and concrete dust for twinkle lights and pine garland, and I don’t regret a second of it.
Because she won’t ask. She never asks. She thinks needing someone makes her weak—or worse, a burden.
She doesn’t see that she’s the strongest damn person I’ve ever met.
Strong enough to keep this shop alive when the world tried to take everything from her.
Strong enough to smile at customers with ribbons in her hands, even when her grief is still stitched into every corner of this place.
So I stay. I skip bids I should be chasing. I turn down jobs that could expand the company faster than I can keep up with. I work late nights on contracts under the dim glow of my desk lamp so I can spend the evenings here, stringing lights with her, making sure she isn’t carrying December alone.
I sacrifice—not because she asks, but because I can’t not.
Because the thought of her alone standing in this shop, drowning in grief and garland, is more unbearable than any deadline, any sleepless night.
I’d give up every building in this town and the next two over, every deal waiting in my inbox, just to make sure she never feels abandoned again.
I’d give up all of it if it meant one more night of watching her laugh beneath Christmas lights.
And maybe she’ll never know. Maybe she’ll never see that every choice I make circles back to her.
Looking at her, I don’t see the awkward, geeky girl from the playground—I see the only person who ever felt like home.
The one person who makes a season I used to hate feel like it might hold magic after all.
Mr. Gibbs leaves after an hour, arms full of books wrapped in red and gold paper.
Willow stands at the register, tucking the last roll of ribbon away.
She smiles at the old man as he shuffles into the snow, and something inside me cracks wide open.
Because all I want—all I’ve ever wanted—is to be the reason she keeps smiling like that.
I almost kissed her today. I almost crossed the line. And God help me, I don’t know how many more almosts I can survive. I hear her laugh with Mr. Gibbs, light and easy, and it pulls me out of hiding. By the time I walk back up front, I’ve stitched on the grin I know she expects, casual and easy.
My pulse is still wrecked, but I bury it beneath my usual act.
I push off the counter and tilt my head like nothing’s happened. “You know, we could close up early tonight. I’ll cook for you.”
She blinks, caught off guard, though her smile tugs at the corners. “Chili again? You’ve been living off that since high school.”
“Excuse me,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest like she’s wounded me. “That chili is a masterpiece. And I’ve got a tree that needs trimming before Friendsgiving. You could help. We’ll call it payment for all the grief you dish out on a daily basis.”
Her lips twitch, fighting the smile she doesn’t want me to see. “So you’re bribing me with ornaments and beans.”
“Better than eating boxed mac and cheese three nights in a row.”
Her eyes narrow. “You don’t know that.”
“Oh, I do.” I lean in and lower my voice like it’s a secret just between us. “Princess, I’ve known you for twenty years. I can tell a mac-and-cheese week from a mile away. Plus, you leave the boxes in the recycling bin, Princess. Amateur mistake.”
She groans, tossing a ribbon spool at me, but her laugh—God, her laugh—fills the whole shop. Light and warm, like twinkle lights strung across dark windows.
And for a second, it almost feels easy. Like we aren’t standing on the edge of something dangerous. Like I haven’t spent the last hour aching to kiss her.
But then she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and I notice the blush creeping back. I realize, normal isn’t possible anymore. Not for me. Not when she’s here, smiling at me like that. If there’s any magic in this season, it’s her. It always has been.