Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Lettie woke to warmth.
Real warmth. Not the fake kind of a kid who didn't want to sit still for a family photo.
Not the manufactured kind of a couple close to divorce but sticking it out for the holiday photo with stiff smiles.
Lettie felt something deeper, closer, anchored in breath and body and the quiet rhythm of another heart.
Carlos.
Her brain caught up with her body a second too late. She was lying on the bear-skin rug in front of the cooling fire, pressed against him from shoulder to hip, wrapped in his arms like they belonged there. Like she belonged there.
And it all… it felt good.
His arm was heavy over her waist, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. One of his legs had tangled with hers during the night. She felt the gentle weight of him—solid and stupidly comforting. She should have shifted. Should have sat up and shaken him off like a snow-dusted coat.
She stayed still.
Eyes still closed, she let the quiet settle over her like snowfall.
For one breathless, suspended moment, she let herself pretend.
Pretend that this wasn’t a temporary truce.
That the man curled around her hadn’t bought her family’s legacy like a stocking-stuffer.
That she wasn’t always one blink away from bolting.
It had been years since she’d slept this well. Longer since she’d felt this safe.
And there it was again—that ache. The one she buried under deadlines and detachment. The one that whispered about late-night cocoa and lights on the tree and parents who used to kiss her forehead and tell her Santa came early because she’d been especially good.
She hadn’t believed it then. She didn’t believe in “especially good.” But she’d believed in the feeling.
That feeling was here now. Safe. Warm. Wanted.
She could almost hear it—the echo of sleigh bells in the distance. Or maybe it was just the wind outside brushing past the eaves. Either way, it felt like Christmas. Real Christmas. The kind she used to feel in her chest before she ever saw it on a calendar.
Carlos stirred behind her. A low sound escaped him—half sigh, half hum—and then he nuzzled, actually nuzzled, into her hair. His hand splayed against her stomach, anchoring her like he’d done this before. Like he had a right to do it. His chest pressed closer to her back, slow and sleepy, and—
He froze.
Lettie felt it before he said a word. The instant the spell shattered. He pulled away with glacier-slow caution, like any faster would burn them both. The air that filled the space he left behind was colder than it had any right to be.
“I…sorry,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and apology.
Lettie didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. She stared into the dying embers of the fire and listened to the emptiness ringing in her ribcage.
There it was again. There was that hollow tug she’d felt the first Christmas after her parents moved to Florida and forgot to send stockings. There was that same tight ache that came with being the one left behind.
She hadn’t asked Carlos to hold her. Hadn’t expected him to stay. But part of her—traitorous and tired—had wanted him to.
And now he was gone, even though he was still in the room. Still within reach behind her. She wanted to reach back, pull him close again, make some stupid joke about mistletoe, proximity clauses, or journalistic objectivity. She wanted to chase the warmth.
But she didn’t.
Because this wasn’t about her. It never was. Her parents were happy, suntanned and oblivious in their retirement enclave. The magazine was thriving under a stranger’s name. Carlos had his cocoa and Christmas tree and a town full of believers. Everyone had moved on.
So why was she still here, holding on?
Lettie rolled onto her back, careful not to look at him. Her hands found the blanket, pulling it higher like armor.
“Morning,” she said, voice neutral, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
If he heard the break in it, he didn’t say. If she felt the loss of him like a ghost in her bones, well… that was her own fault. Hope was for people who didn’t know better. She had a job to do. And that job was to expose the people ruining Christmas in this town.
“You can stay here tonight,” she said, voice steady.
“Are you sure?” He looked so surprised. So bright. Like someone had handed him a gift he hadn’t dared ask for.
“It’s yours. The cabin, I mean. I won’t be here. I'll be gone.”
His face didn’t fall all at once. It shifted in small, quiet ways. The crinkle at the corner of his eyes eased. His mouth pressed into a line. His shoulders settled back into something guarded.
“Oh,” he said, just that.
Lettie tightened the blanket around her. “I have everything I need for the article,” she said, aiming for crisp and clear, but it came out thin. Brittle. “There’s nothing else to stay for.”
Not entirely true. Not at all true.
She could still taste the warmth of last night in her bones. Still feel the ghost of his arm over her waist. But if she left first—before anything else could happen, before he could pull away again—then maybe she could protect what little was left of her heart.
Carlos nodded once, politely. Almost too polite. Like last night by the fire had never happened. Like the softness had been hers alone.
She stood and crossed the room to gather her things, determined not to look back. Not at the dying fire. Not at the rug. Not at him.
Because if she did, she might change her mind. And she couldn’t afford to do that. She’d always known how this story ended. So this time, she was going to write the last line herself.
“Lettie, wait.”
She was two steps from the door. One breath away from safety. She didn’t turn around.
“I know you said you’re leaving,” Carlos said, his voice quiet, steady—but not resigned. “And maybe I’m reading it all wrong. But last night… this morning… it felt like something.”
His words stretched across the space between them, warm and hopeful.
“I’m not trying to make it more than it was. I just… I need to know if I’m the only one who felt it. Like maybe… maybe we could be something.”
The words landed like a wish on the air. A foolish, beautiful thing.
Lettie’s hand clenched around the strap of her bag. She wanted to say yes. Of course, she felt it. Of course, there was something. But want was never the same as safe.
So she turned, finally, just enough to meet his eyes. Just enough to lie.
“No,” she said. Calm. Clean. Surgical. “You’re not reading it wrong. But you’re not reading the whole thing, either.”
Carlos blinked, confusion flickering like candlelight.
“This isn’t some Hallmark Christmas movie, Carlos,” she added. “It’s just a cabin in the woods and two people who got snowed in. That’s all.”
He looked like he wanted to argue. To fight for something. But she didn’t give him the chance. She opened the door. Cold air swept in like a correction. And still, she didn’t look back.
Because if she did…
She’d have to admit she was walking away from the first real thing she’d felt in years. And she wasn’t sure that she was strong enough to survive that truth.