Chapter 5 Willow
WILLOW
The next morning Vincent feels farther away despite being right next to me.
He’s on his side, eyes open, watching the ceiling as if numbers could be printed up there if he stares hard enough.
The bedroom is blue with early light; the fire is a bed of red embers, the air cool enough that my breath shows when I sigh.
I reach across the small country of sheets between us and touch his shoulder.
“You’re not sleeping,” I murmur.
“Neither are you,” he says, voice that low, gravel that makes my stomach flip.
“Mine’s voluntary,” I tease, but he doesn’t bite. He kisses the inside of my wrist, soft and automatic, then sits up.
The dog starts barking downstairs—the alarm clock none of us asked for—and then come the footsteps. A door opens. A laugh echoes.
“Three Day” Theo bellows, voice already at maximum volume for a person who is eight years old and powered by sugar with a slight lisp so tree sounds like three.
“Tree day,” Rose corrects primly from somewhere near the stairs.
Theo blows out a raspberry, and I can imagine him rolling his pretty blue eyes at her. “That’s what I said!”
Vincent exhales, eyes on the ceiling. “They don’t sleep, do they?”
“Not if there’s something to be excited about,” I say, pushing the blanket off my legs. The cold air bites, but the promise of coffee—and his gaze following me—keeps me moving. “Apparently, tree day ranks higher than human rest.”
He turns onto his side, one arm draped over the pillow he’s stolen. That faint, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “You make it sound like a tragedy. You’re the one who said the more children the better.”
“It’s seven in the morning,” I remind him, tying the robe loosely at my waist. “I thought my kids would be more morning adverse like me.”
A light chuckle escapes him, low and unhurried. “You used to like mornings.” His eyes trace the movement of my hands as I gather my hair, his gaze soft but heavy enough to feel.
“I used to sleep past them,” I shoot back, catching his reflection in the mirror as I twist my hair into a bun.
He props himself up on one elbow, the sheet falling low on his hips. “Come back to bed.”
I glance over my shoulder, smiling despite myself. “Vincent—”
“Just for a minute,” he murmurs, voice dipping into that dangerous softness that always breaks my resolve. “Cast and Damien are up. They can handle breakfast.”
“They’ll start a food fight,” I counter, though my tone is already weaker, laughter bleeding into it.
He grins, lazy and wicked. “Then they’ll clean it up. That’s called teamwork.”
I chuckle lowly, shaking my head. “You’re terrible.”
“And yet,” he says, moving before I can finish, “you’re still here.”
He reaches for me in one smooth motion, his hand finding my wrist, then the small of my back. I let out a surprised gasp as he tugs me backward, the world tilting until I land against his chest with a soft thud and a laugh that escapes before I can stop it.
“Vincent—” I try to sound stern, but he’s already wrapping both arms around me, strong and certain, pulling me down until I’m pinned to the bed beside him. His breath brushes the back of my neck and I shiver at the warmth of it.
“Five minutes,” he murmurs into my skin. “That’s all I want.”
“Liar,” I say, twisting in his arms until I’m facing him. The sheet slips between us, soft against my knees. He looks down at me, hair mussed, eyes half-shadowed, the faint scrape of stubble along his jaw catching the light.
“You’re trouble,” I whisper, fingers curling into the fabric of his T-shirt.
He leans closer, voice a low hum against my mouth. “You married trouble.”
“I don’t remember that being in the vows.”
“You weren’t listening.”
He dips his head, and I meet him halfway. The kiss lingers like this is the first time we’ve explored each other’s mouths. His thumb traces my jaw, and I can feel the rhythm of his heart where our chests meet. The air between us thins until even breathing feels like sharing.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are darker now, his voice rougher. “Stay.”
I let my hand slide up the back of his neck, feeling the tension still living there. “You said five minutes.”
“I lied.”
He catches my mouth again, this time deeper—no rush, just gravity. My laughter melts into the kiss, the sound swallowed between us. His hand moves to my waist, thumb pressing tenderly against the thin fabric of my robe.
The room smells like sleep and him—clean cotton, faint cologne, the ghost of coffee from last night’s mug still sitting on the nightstand. The house beyond us hums faintly with life—the creak of floorboards, a distant bark, the muffled sound of children not yet realizing their parents are awake.
Vincent breaks the kiss first, resting his forehead against mine. His breath fans across my lips, steady and warm. “We could stay like this all day,” he murmurs.
“Until they find us,” I whisper, smiling.
He answers with another kiss, rougher, and I forget about the cold morning, about the barking dog, about everything that isn’t this—until—
“MOM!” Rose’s voice cuts through the door like a fire alarm.
We freeze. He pulls back, breathing hard, forehead still resting against mine.
“Saved by the child,” Vincent mutters, voice low against my skin.
“Or doomed by her,” I whisper back, trying—and failing—not to laugh.
“Moooom!” Rose shrieks again, closer now, her voice echoing up the stairs. “Theo’s drinking the syrup straight from the bottle!”
Vincent groans and drops back against the pillows, one arm flung over his eyes. “Of course he is.”
I push myself upright, breath still unsteady, robe slipping off one shoulder.
My cheeks are flushed, my hair hopelessly tangled, my heartbeat drumming too fast for a morning this early.
“Go,” I tell him, nudging him with my knee.
“Time to channel your inner authority figure. You’re better at the scary voice. ”
He reaches up, fingers catching around my wrist before I can escape. His hand is warm, firm. He turns my arm over and presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist, just where the pulse beats. The contact is soft and lingering, his thumb brushing there once as if to memorize it.
“We both know Cast has the better authority voice,” he murmurs, voice rough with affection. “Besides you laugh at mine.”
“That’s because you’re not mean.” I smile softly.
Vincent’s ocean eyes darken. “I can be mean.”
A shiver runs through me, and my mouth runs dry at the lust thick in his throat.
He sits up smoothly, eyes still on me, the faintest smile curving his mouth.
The light from the window cuts across his face, and for a moment he looks softer than I’m used to—less the businessman, more the man who obsessed over me, picked out all of my outfits, and couldn’t help but to whisper every dirty thing into my ear.
“Come on, before I tie you to this bed,” Vincent says, tugging my hand. “Cast makes Theo do push ups for breaking the rule of not drinking syrup from the bottle.”
I rub my thighs together and sigh, that deep, reluctant sound that’s more show than sincerity. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
We race each other down the hallway—bare feet against wood, laughter chasing us like sunlight.
I nearly trip on the last stair; he catches my arm, steadying me, both of us still laughing as we hit the landing.
The air downstairs smells like toast, syrup, and something burning faintly in the distance—probably Damien attempting heroics with the griddle again.
The sound of the kids hits us before we even turn the corner—Rose protesting, Theo defending, Penny giggling like she’s the secret accomplice.
“You know I want to hear that scary voice later,” I whisper, still catching my breath.
Vincent smirks, pushing his sleeves up his sleep shirt sleeves. “You are asking for a spanking, aren’t you little devil?”
“Yes sir,” I wink, and he laughs.
But as he looks at me, the laughter still lingers on his lips, but it doesn’t quite make it to his eyes.
The shine dulls—just for a moment, a shadow that moves behind his gaze like a thought he hasn’t spoken aloud.
It’s there and gone, but it leaves a weight in my chest that wasn’t there a heartbeat ago.
My stomach sinks. I open my mouth to say something—anything—but before I can, Elise barrels into the room like a comet in socks, her curls flying.
“Mommy!” she squeals, and throws herself straight into my arms.
I catch her easily, her small body warm and solid against mine. She smells like syrup and strawberries, her laughter bubbling against my neck.
“Good morning, baby,” I whisper, holding her tight, burying my face in her hair for a second longer than I need to.
She pulls back just enough to look up at me, eyes bright, face lit with mischief. “Theo drank the syrup, and Pops said a bad word!”
Cast groans behind me. “I did not say a bad word.”
Theo’s voice pipes up from somewhere near the counter. “He almost did!”
Rose crosses her arms, chin high. “He said hell, and that counts.”
Damien’s laugh rumbles from where he’s flipping pancakes. “Technically, she’s not wrong.”
“Technically,” Cast mutters, “you should stop encouraging them.”
“I’m teaching them vocabulary,” Damien says, perfectly serious.
“Well, you owe ten dollars for the swear jar!” Vincent calls as he pours two cups of coffee. “For today and yesterday.”
“You’re a snitch,” Cast scoffs, taking a sip of his coffee.
“Want to make it fifteen?” Vincent teases wiggling his eyebrows at him.
“How about twenty?” Cast tilts his head to the side, the vein in his neck pulling taunt and that’s how I know he is doing his kid friendly version of I-am-about-to-punch-Vincent-in-the-face look.
“Alright you two!” I call, slipping between Cast’s legs and leaning against his chest. “You people have entirely too much energy in the morning.” I mutter as he presses a kiss to my temple.