Chapter 2
TWO
CYRUS
I should have known Bradley was up to something the second he walked into the bar wearing that look. The one he gets when he’s about to ask me for a favor disguised as a compliment disguised as a threat.
He takes one look at the lineup of mugs drying on the bar and grins. “Busy morning?”
“It’s nine a.m.,” I say, wiping down the counter. “Of course it’s busy. People panic when they realize they still have shopping to do.”
Bradley leans his elbows on the bar. “You’re grumpier than usual.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re brooding.”
I level a stare at him. “What do you want?”
He hesitates just long enough to confirm this is going to be terrible. “So, Mom was thinking—”
“No.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“I don’t need to. The answer is still no.”
“Fine,” he says, exasperated. “Mom wants to have Christmas Eve dinner at your cabin this year.”
I close my eyes. Count to three. Try to remember that homicide is frowned upon even during the holidays. “Absolutely not.”
“The kitchen’s bigger.”
“No.”
“You’ve got the farmhouse table.”
“No.”
“And the good oven.”
“That oven is barely good for frozen pizza.”
“But it’s better than ours,” he fires back. “And the house is big enough for everyone. We’re maxed out over here.”
“Not my problem.”
Bradley makes a sympathetic face that never means anything good.
“Cyrus. It’s Mom’s first Christmas without Nana. She wants the whole family together. She cried this morning.”
He only plays the Mom Card when he’s desperate.
I rub the bridge of my nose. “I told you, I’m working all week.”
“You close early Christmas Eve.”
“That doesn’t mean I want twenty people at my place eating ham off my dishes.”
His grin sharpens. “Funny thing. Mom already told the group chat you said yes.”
“Bradley—”
“And everyone reacted with a lot of heart emojis. I’m just saying, you’d look like a monster if you back out.”
He has the decency to wince when I glare at him. “Look. I’ll help. We’ll all help. You don’t have to do anything except unlock the door and pretend you’re happy to see everyone.”
“Great,” I mutter. “My favorite hobby.”
He claps me on the back so hard my teeth click. “Knew I could count on you.”
By the time I get home that afternoon, I’ve convinced myself the news could be worse. Maybe the roads will close. Maybe the power will go out. Maybe the entire extended family will suddenly decide to try something radical, like staying in their own homes.
I park, grab bags of groceries from the truck, and try to ignore the tight feeling in my shoulders that started somewhere around aisle four at the store.
It only gets worse when I push open the front door and hear footsteps inside.
Please don’t be who I think it is.
From behind the half-decorated tree—branches sagging from the weight of three lonely ornaments—Dahlia appears holding a roll of foil and a look that says she is about to take over this cabin the way a general takes over a battlefield.
Of course.
She freezes when she sees me. “Hi.”
Her hair is pulled into a loose knot, cheeks a little pink from the cold, bundled in one of those coats that look like they could withstand a blizzard and a breakup at the same time. For one beat, the memory of her tangled in my sheets slams into me so hard I lose my breath.
I set the grocery bags on the counter. “What are you doing here?”
“Molly told me about dinner being moved,” she says. “She also told me not to let you cook alone.”
“I didn’t agree to cook alone.”
“I know. You agreed to host twenty people. Congratulations.”
I drag a hand down my face. “I didn’t agree to that either.”
“Well, you’re doing it anyway.” She surveys the kitchen like she’s assessing damages. “But don’t worry. I’m here now. Step one is getting this place to look like actual humans live here.”
“It does look like humans live here.”
She raises her eyebrows at the sad tree in the corner. “Does it?”
I bite back a comment. “It doesn’t need to be perfect.”
She moves past me to unload groceries, brushing close enough that the sleeve of her coat grazes my arm. Too close. I step back.
She glances at me. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to invade your space.”
“You didn’t,” I lie. “Just… surprised.”
Her mouth curves, not quite a smile. “You thought you’d get out of seeing me again?”
I swallow. Hard. “Didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She starts lining things up on the counter with brisk efficiency. Heavy cream. Butter. Two pies. A bag of cranberries. My brain keeps lagging behind, stuck on the sight of her. The sound of her voice. The echo of that night.
She glances over her shoulder. “Bradley says everyone’s excited.”
“Bradley says lots of things.”
“Fair.”
I reach for the bag with the rolls just as she does, our fingers brushing. Heat shoots straight up my arm. She blinks fast and snatches her hand back.
Her pulse jumps in her throat. Mine probably does too.
“So,” she says, clearing her voice. “Where are your decorations?”
“You’re looking at them.”
She gives the tree a long stare like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh or offer condolences. “Right. We’re going to need more.”
“I don’t need the place looking like Santa exploded in here.”
“You’re hosting families. You need effort.” She opens the nearest box. It contains exactly one tangled string of lights. “Wow. This is sad.”
I grit my teeth. “Dahlia.”
“What?”
“You’re judging.”
“I’m helping.”
“You’re judging and helping.”
She shrugs. “Multitasking.”
A muscle tightens in my jaw. She looks at me for a second longer than necessary before turning back to the lights. She tests the plug; half the strand flickers, half stays dark.
“Add it to the list,” she says. “We’re going to have to do a run to the craft store.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not paying for more decorations.”
“You’re not. Molly sent me with her card.” Dahlia straightens, folds the strand, and tucks it aside. “If we don’t make this place festive, your mother will redecorate it herself. Do you want that?”
Absolutely not.
She grins when she sees the answer on my face. “I’ll drive.”
I take a steadying breath. “I’m not going to the craft store with you.”
Her head tilts. “Why not?”
Because every time I get too close to you, I forget how to breathe.
Because I told myself that night meant nothing.
Because if we spend another hour alone together, I’m going to do something stupid.
I say none of that.
“Because I’m busy.”
She looks around the kitchen. “Doing what? Glowering?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
She laughs softly, the sound hitting a spot just under my ribs. “Relax. I’m kidding.” She grabs her coat from the chair. “Come on. The sooner we get what we need, the sooner we can start cooking.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” she interrupts gently. “Your family’s counting on you. Molly’s counting on me. We can get through one store run together.”
She moves toward the door.
I stay rooted to the floor, every instinct telling me to keep distance, stay calm, stay sane.
Then she opens the door, cold air sweeping in, her hair blowing loose around her face. She looks back at me, waiting, hopeful, nervous.
And I know I’m screwed.
I grab my coat from the hook.
Her smile hits me square in the chest.
“Good,” she says softly. “Let’s go.”
And just like that, I follow her out into the snow.