Chapter 6
SIX
WELLS
I wake slowly, surfacing from warmth into more warmth.
For a second, I don’t register why my chest feels full. Why my arm is wrapped around something soft. Why everything smells like vanilla, cedar, and the faintest hint of sugar.
Then it hits me.
It’s Celia.
She’s tucked against me, her back pressed to my chest, my arm locked loosely around her waist. Her bottom is pressed intimately against my dick. Her hair tickles my jaw.
And God help me, I feel happy. Dangerously, recklessly happy after spending a couple of nights with her in my bed.
She shifts in her sleep, curling closer like she belongs there. Like she’s always belonged there.
My heart pounds with something I don’t have language for.
I shouldn’t feel this happy. I shouldn’t want her this this much.
I shouldn’t be imagining mornings like this stretching on past Christmas.
But I do. I really, really do.
She stirs and turns her head slightly. “You’re awake,” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
“Still here.”
I let out a breath, tightening my arm around her for one selfish second before forcing myself to loosen it. “You warm enough?”
She nods, smiling faintly. “I am.”
For a moment it’s perfect. Quiet. Soft. Real.
Then the guilt creeps in like a crack in the wall letting in the cold.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling beams. “I shouldn’t feel this happy.”
Her sigh is gentle. Understanding. “Wells…”
“This can’t last,” I murmur. “We both know that.”
“We don’t have to know what happens next,” she says softly, propping herself on her elbow to look at me. “We can be here. Today. Together.”
I meet her eyes, and I swear something inside me breaks a little. Because I want that. More than I’ve wanted anything in years.
“I want today,” I admit. “I want you.”
Her hand slides across my chest. Warm. Reassuring. Dangerous.
“Then let’s have today,” she whispers. “Just until Christmas.”
Just until Christmas.
A deal with the devil that tastes like heaven.
I nod, even though every part of me knows this isn’t going to stay simple.
And then—
Small footsteps thump down the hallway, followed by an excited squeal.
“It stopped snowing! It’s Christmas Eve!”
I bolt upright. “Shit.”
Celia laughs under her breath and sits up, tugging my flannel shirt around her body like a blanket. The sight of her in my shirt… it hits me hard. Too hard.
I scrub a hand over my face. “I should—”
“Yeah.” She stands and heads for the door, cheeks flushed but eyes warm. “Me too.”
We meet Elsie in the hallway. She’s vibrating with excitement, hair sticking up like she’s been rolling around in dreams all night.
“Daddy! Celia! It’s Christmas Eve! We have to go to the celebration tonight. We have to!”
My stomach drops.
Because the celebration means crowds.
Crowds mean gossip.
And gossip means eyes on us.
Hell no.
I crouch down beside her. “Bug, that might not be a great idea.”
“Why not?” she demands. “Everyone goes! And I want Celia to hear my song!”
Celia gives me a cautious look, stepping in gently. “If he’s worried about the roads—”
“It’s not the roads,” I mutter.
“It’s politics,” Elsie says dramatically, parroting something she’s heard around town without any idea what it means. “Adults worry about politics.”
Celia bites back a smile. I glare at the ceiling.
“Bug,” I try again, “I don’t think—”
“Please?” She folds her hands under her chin like a tiny dictator. “Please please please?”
Celia looks at me, voice soft. “We don’t have to make a big entrance. We can stick close together. Just for her performance.”
Damn it.
She’s right. And it’s what Elsie wants more than anything.
And Celia standing there in my shirt, looking like everything good that ever happened to me, is not helping my resolve.
I exhale heavily. “Fine. Just for a little while.”
Elsie launches herself at us both. “Yay! The best Christmas ever!”
Celia laughs. And I wish—just for a second—that this could stay simple. That wanting her didn’t feel like inviting disaster.
But the day moves fast.
We bundle up. Eat breakfast. Keep things polite, normal, safe. Or we try. Every time our hands brush or our eyes meet, heat sparks under my skin.
By the time we get to town, the sun is already starting to set behind the mountains. Christmas lights sparkle everywhere. Kids run between booths. Music drifts through the air.
It feels like stepping into a snow globe.
Celia walks beside me, close enough that my knuckles brush hers every few steps. Not close enough to be suspicious. But close enough to kill me slowly.
Elsie runs ahead, weaving through the crowd until she reaches the small Santa booth in front of the general store.
“Santaaaaaaaaa!” she cries, barreling into the line.
I groan. “That’s Henry Dahl behind the beard.”
Celia nudges me. “The gossip guy from the hardware store?”
“The same,” I mutter. “He knows everything about everyone.”
This was a mistake.
Elsie climbs onto Santa’s lap while Celia and I stand a short distance away. My arms cross over my chest. My heartbeat spikes.
Hank Dahl peers down at Elsie with a fake-ho-ho expression. “Well hello there, little miss! What would you like for Christmas this year?”
Elsie beams. “I already got what I want.”
Santa chuckles. “Oh? And what’s that?”
She points directly at Celia.
And then at me.
And then, very clearly and very loudly, says:
“Daddy and Celia are going to get married.”
My soul leaves my body.
Celica freezes beside me. People turn. I swear I hear a distant record scratch.
Santa blinks. “Oh?”
Elsie nods proudly. “They love each other. They kiss and everything.”
Kill me now.
Celia’s face goes bright red. I can’t breathe.
Hank Dahl leans forward, whispering loudly enough for the next three towns to hear. “And how do you know that, sweetheart?”
Elsie grins wide. “Because they’re already sleeping in the same bed.”
Everything stops.
The music. The wind. My heartbeat.
Hell, probably the entire goddamn state of Alaska is on pause to gape at us.
Celia sways beside me.
We are so unbelievably screwed.