Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The kitchen smelled like Christmas.
Barefoot at the stove, Lily hummed along with the radio while the griddle hissed and popped. She poured another circle of batter, waited for the bubbles to rise, then piped a spiral of cinnamon brown sugar across the top.
The swirl melted into the pancake, caramelizing and making the kitchen smell divine, despite Rush’s sparse pantry.
A box of cereal, protein bars, and one lonely pancake mix, which she was using now.
She’d scavenged cinnamon, sugar, eggs, and butter, and then hit the jackpot when she found cream cheese in the fridge.
Riggs hovered close, eyes locked on her, ever hopeful for another taste of pancake.
She slipped him another piece as both a peace offering and a good doggy, don’t bite me incentive.
Honestly, she probably didn’t need to worry anymore.
Somewhere between last night and this morning, she and Riggs had come to an understanding: She pretended he wasn’t a big scary police dog, and he pretended she was in charge so long as she kept the treats coming. So far, it was working beautifully.
After Rush had taken her back to his bed last night—well, early this morning—Lily had slept like the dead until Riggs woke her with a long, cold nose in her neck.
Apparently, she was in his spot, but when she’d put on another one of Rush’s oversized T-shirts and padded downstairs, the dog had followed her.
She let him out into the frosty air, and when he was done with his business, he’d herded her over to the container of dog food in the mudroom, nudging her insistently until she’d fed him.
Then he’d sighed deeply and stationed himself near her as she moved through slow sun salutations in the sunlight pouring in through the picture window.
Breath by breath, she’d eased herself into calm. Back to her center. Because last night had been… intense. It always was with Rush, but something had shifted. For the first time, she’d felt him cracking open and letting her in.
When she’d woken up to find his side of the bed empty, she’d followed the steady thump of fists down the hall and found him in front of a punching bag. The look in his eyes when he’d turned—God. It had nearly put her on her knees.
She’d once thought he was stoic. Guarded. Removed from the tsunami of emotions she felt so deeply sometimes it hurt, but she was wrong. Every emotion lived on his face last night—every punishing thought, every memory, every shard of guilt bleeding through his eyes.
Her own throat had burned. She’d wanted to weep for him, to scream at the injustice of it all—that a man who gave everything to protect would torture himself for the one life he couldn’t save.
But she didn’t because if she cried, he would’ve comforted her instead, and that wasn’t what he needed.
It was her turn to take care of him.
So she had, the only way he’d let her. She’d slid her hands over sweat-slicked muscles and kissed the salt from his skin. She’d used her body, slowly, gently, until his body stopped shaking with anger and started trembling with want.
The sex hadn’t been frantic or rough this time. She’d held his gaze while she’d rolled her hips, smoothing her hands over his chest and taking him deeper and holding his gaze when he’d tried to look away. She’d wanted him to see her, to feel her, to know he wasn’t alone in that darkness.
Now, the first wistful notes of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” played over the radio. She’d always thought it was one of the sadder Christmas songs. Ah, well. Mixed emotions all around today, apparently.
She whisked the batter briskly and poured big circles onto the buttered griddle.
A sound behind her made her glance up. Rush leaned in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips. His arms were folded across his bare chest as he watched her. She smiled, thinking once again that he and Riggs shared many similarities.
He glanced at the messy counter—powdered sugar, butter, and cream cheese ready for the icing—and raised a brow. “What’s that?” he asked, looking with interest at the bowl she was mixing.
“Cream cheese icing,” she said. “For cinnamon roll pancakes. Merry Christmas,” she added, smiling when he came closer, backing her against the counter and nuzzling her neck.
“I hope you don’t mind.” She sighed, closing her eyes.
Rush woke up hungry and horny, if the tent in his pants was any indication.
She relaxed and let his hands wander under the hem of the T-shirt.
Looked like last night hadn’t ruined things between them.
“I’m starving,” he murmured, cupping her ass and kneading. He bent to kiss her, all minty and addictive, and she settled into his chest as he took the kiss deeper.
“Mmm,” she sighed happily when he pulled away and smiled at her, scruffy and barely awake.
Rumpled morning-after Rush was the only Christmas present she needed.
“What can I do to help?” he asked, his voice still rough from sleep.
“Set the table?” Deftly, she slid another pancake onto a plate and drizzled the glaze in looping ribbons, dusting it with more cinnamon for good measure.
He moved around the kitchen, setting out cups and silverware and topping off her coffee. When she turned with two short stacks, he was waiting with her chair pulled out.
The gentlemanly gesture made her smile. “Let’s eat.”
For a while, the only sounds were forks scraping plates and Riggs’s sighing, ever hopeful for scraps but not daring to nose his master, Lily noted.
She tucked her bare legs beneath her chair and picked at her own plate, suddenly aware of the quiet stretching between them.
She looked up to find him watching her with that unreadable expression that made her want to squirm.
Rush broke it first. “Haven’t had pancakes on Christmas morning since…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “A long time.”
She tilted her head. “Did you have another tradition?”
“Girls would tear into their presents. Pop would make coffee. Sometimes I’d fry eggs.” He cut into his stack with the edge of his fork. “Nothing like this.” He gestured at his plate.
Warmth unfurled in her chest at that news. She liked thinking she’d made something new with him.
“Well,” she said lightly, “they’re not gourmet, but a box mix and”— she lifted her fork, miming a flourish—“cinnamon swirl glaze turned out pretty good.”
“Pretty damn good.” His mouth tipped in the faintest smile. The sunlight streaming into the kitchen caught on the cuts on his hand as he lifted another bite, and before she could stop herself, the words spilled out.
“How are your hands?”
His fork froze in midair. For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer, just flexed his fingers. “They’re fine.”
“Rush…” Impulsively, she reached across the table and brushed her fingers lightly over his knuckles.
His jaw flexed. He stared down at the cinnamon swirl on his plate. “I’m sorry about last night. You shouldn’t have had to see that.”
“I’m glad I did.” She smoothed her thumb over his skin, feeling the roughness there. “You don’t have to hide the hard parts from me.”
His eyes rose then, storm dark, meeting hers, and for a moment, her breath caught. There it was again—that rawness he tried so hard to lock away.
Then it was gone, shuttered again. He cleared his throat, nodding at her unfinished plate. “You gonna finish those?”
She pushed the plate over wordlessly and let him retreat. Baby steps.
Except that he got up and left the table. Searing disappointment filled her. The walls had gone up again. She sipped her coffee and concentrated on her breathing, only to look up a moment later when he set a small, plainly wrapped box in front of her.
“Merry Christmas, Lily.”
Her eyes widened in dismay. “I don’t have your present with me.”
“I don’t need anything.” He nodded at the box, smiling. “Open it.”
Carefully, she unwrapped the paper and opened the lid, gasping when she saw the rose quartz from the Christmas market nestled inside. “You remembered.” Her throat got tight, and her eyes filled.
“Don’t cry, angel.” He got up and took the necklace from her. “Lift your hair.” He buckled the clasp and left a lingering kiss on her shoulder before returning to his seat. “Figured it belonged on you.”
She sniffed, truly touched. “I can’t help it. You’re very thoughtful.”
She got up, slid onto his lap, and kissed him. “Thank you,” she whispered against his lips, resting her forehead against his.
Rush’s arms locked around her lightly. After a beat, he cleared his throat. “You still want to go with me today to visit Pop?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, sitting up. “I’d like that.”
“He’s… Pop’s not always himself. Some days he doesn’t know me.” He hesitated. “I just want you to be prepared.”
“Rush, you know what my family’s like. We’re chaotic and nosy. I can handle anything.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “What about your family? The Harts must have Christmas plans?”
“We have dinner tonight with the whole family.” She hesitated, wanting to invite him, to bring him into the center of all that chaos and warmth, but she sensed a wary edge still clinging to him.
He’d opened up so much last night—she almost let the words die there, afraid of a brush-off, but she made herself say, “I’d like you to come. ”
Instead, he nodded. “All right.”
She smiled. “We’ll have to stop by Evie’s apartment. I can’t exactly show up to meet Pop in a red satin dress.”
That earned her a grin. His gaze dipped to her bare legs under the hem of his T-shirt. “He wouldn’t mind if you did.”
She tossed a napkin at him, laughing.
While Rush cleaned the kitchen, Lily took a quick shower and tried very hard not to snoop in his room. It wasn’t difficult—most of his life was packed in boxes along the wall. Still, a few things caught her eye.
On the dresser, leaning against a lamp, was a photo in a simple black frame.
Rush couldn’t have been more than twenty, all sharp shoulders and buzz-cut hair, with two younger girls by his side, looking up at him like he hung the moon.
Rachel and Sarah. He had an arm hooked around each of them, protective even back then.
Next to it, tucked beneath a stack of mail, was the picture Chloe had drawn him.
She smoothed a curled edge, her eyes prickling.
He’d never mentioned it, but it had meant something.
For all his gruffness, Rush carried the weight of these people who loved him, and he took it seriously.
She touched his face in the photo, wondering what else he carried silently… and if he’d ever let her in.
Sleepovers, breakfast, and now—meeting Pop.
For something she kept reminding herself was temporary, it felt dangerously close to everything she wanted.