Chapter 21 Cole
Cole
ONE YEAR LATER…
The sunset hits the ridge exactly the way it did that night. Except this time, there’s a house sitting on it.
I’m standing on the same west-facing deck he brought me to a year ago, back when it was nothing but bones and beams. Now it’s glass and warm wood and a roof over our heads and a view that steals every coherent thought right out of my brain.
I wrap my cardigan tighter around me and take a breath so deep my lungs hurt. Our deck boards creak behind me, then he slides his arm around my waist.
“You’re supposed to be inside freaking out,” Cole rumbles against my ear. “This is my quiet spot.”
“I am freaking out,” I whisper-shout, folding both hands over his forearm. “I just came out here to remember I live in a postcard so I don’t spiral over deviled eggs and not drying out the damn ham.”
He laughs into my hair and it’s so stupidly domestic I could cry. “Baby, it’s Christmas. Nobody’s gonna care about deviled eggs.”
“Your mom will care.”
“My mom will care if you care.” He kisses the side of my head, beard scratchy, voice soft. “She’s gonna walk in, see this view, and forget about the eggs.”
I tilt my head back so I can look at him. “You still like it?”
He looks past me, out over the deck, at the timber-frame ceiling he designed, at the wall of windows, at the mountains. At the house he designed, built, bought, and then just… handed me, like that’s a normal thing. “Yeah,” he says, eyes warm. “Think we did alright.”
We absolutely did not just “do alright.” We did this.
The very house he showed me half-built—he turned around two months later and was like, “Merry Christmas, Hailey,” and I about blacked out.
He said I wouldn’t stop talking about how this was the kind of place I wanted to spend Christmas mornings in, so he made it happen.
I spin in his hold, palms on his chest. “Okay, quick status report while I still have you: ham is in, potatoes are boiled, rolls are proofing, tree is perfect, I vacuumed three times, and there are actual cloth napkins on the table because your sister is dramatic and I didn’t want her to think I’ve fallen apart without her… ”
He arches a brow, amused. “I don’t think anything could make you fall apart.”
“I’m hanging by a thread here.” I grab his shirt. “Where are you going again?”
“To get everyone from the airport.” He says it like I didn’t already make him tell me five times. “Your parents land at four fifty. My parents land at five. Maddie lands at five ten because she couldn’t pick a normal flight. I’ll have a truck full of Christmas guests by six.”
Panic flares. “Six is in, like, three and a half hours, Cole.”
“Yep.” He taps my nose. “Which is why you’re going to stop rearranging garland and go inside and enjoy your pretty little house.”
“My garland is crooked.”
“It’s fine.”
“The hot chocolate bar still needs the peppermint spoons put in the jar and I need to set out the little place cards—”
His mouth curves into that amused smile he gets when he’s making fun of me. “You makin’ place cards now?”
“It’s our first Christmas hosting. I want it to be nice.”
“It is nice.” He glances past me through the glass doors into the great room. Our tree is glowing, stockings hung on the stone fireplace he built with his own two ridiculous hands, my throw pillows in full festive formation. “You did good, baby.”
“You sure you don’t need me to go with? I could help wrangle the luggage, make sure Maddie doesn’t start crying the second she sees you.”
He’s already shaking his head. “Nope. You stay. Finish whatever… Pinterest fever dream you’ve got going on in there.”
“It’s not a fever dream, it’s a vision.”
“Uh-huh.” He cups my jaw, thumbs brushing my cheeks. “And when I get back, I want to walk in this house and smell dinner and see you not stress-sweating.”
I gasp. “I am not stress-sweating.”
“You’re stress-sweating.” He kisses me anyway. “Lock the door after me. Call me if you need anything.”
“Drive safe. Don’t forget the—”
“—luggage, Maddie, your mom’s cookies, my dad’s mystery tool bag. Yes, I know.” He’s grinning now, backing toward the stairs. “Love you.”
The words still hit like fireworks every time he says them to me. “Love you.”
He pauses at the bottom step, eyes flicking over me once more like he’s memorizing it—me in our house, lights on, Christmas dinner on the stove. Then he’s gone, boots thumping down the front steps, truck engine rumbling to life in the driveway below.
I stand there for one more second, watching the sun sink over the same ridge where I first knew he was the one. Now, I’m living my dream.
The second his truck disappears down the long drive, I let out a breath that’s half lovesick sigh, half panic attack. “Okay. Ham, check. Rolls, check. Garland, well, crooked, but check.”
I turn back toward the kitchen and that’s when my stomach twists. Not the oh no, the ham is burning kind of twist. A low, queasy roll that makes me pause mid-step.
“Great,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my middle. “Now I’m stress-ulcering.”
I brush it off. I’ve got too much to do to spiral over a random stomach flutter. But by the time I’m basting the ham, the smell hits me and my gag reflex lunges like it’s auditioning for a horror movie.
“Oh no,” I whisper, slapping a hand over my mouth.
I shove the roasting pan back in the oven and gulp air over the sink until the wave passes. Maybe I just haven’t eaten enough. Maybe I’m dehydrated. Maybe I’m—Oh. Oh God.
My brain starts running the world’s most terrifying math problem. When was my last period?
I drop the dish towel and pull out my phone, flipping through my calendar app like a detective solving a murder. Work trip… Maddie’s birthday dinner… that weekend in Estes Park when he couldn’t keep his hands off me and the cabin fireplace practically burned down from friction—
Shit.
That was five weeks ago. I freeze. Do the math again, slower this time, like maybe the numbers will magically change. They don’t.
Five weeks. Five. Which means I’m…
“Nope.” I shake my head, pacing the kitchen. “Nope, nope, absolutely not. This is a coincidence.”
Except now that I’m thinking about it, every weird thing from the last few days flashes in neon. The sudden craving for orange juice. Crying over a Folgers commercial. Falling asleep sitting up while watching Elf.
I grab my keys. There’s a Walgreens ten minutes down the road, and if I leave now, I can get there and back before Cole’s home with the Christmas caravan. But then I remember the ham. The rolls. And I can’t leave.
I stare at myself in the reflection of the microwave door.
My hair is falling out of its bun, there’s flour on my sweater, and my face is plastered with a wide-eyed look of someone about to make a life-altering discovery between wrapping paper and mashed potatoes.
And then I remember that I might actually have a test.
There’s only one way to find out.
Upstairs, in the en suite bathroom that overlooks the snowy ridge, I dig through the cabinet. Because of course I bought a box of tests months ago when Maddie swore she was late and made me pee on one “in solidarity.”
I pull one out and stare at it like it’s about to explode.
“Okay, Hailey. Breathe.”
After several minutes of trying to make myself pee, I finally do. I set the stick on the counter and start pacing.
Sixty seconds in, I tell myself not to look. Ninety seconds in, I peek anyway. Two pink lines. I blink. Shake it. Like maybe it’s a snow globe and the lines will settle into something else.
They don’t. They’re just there, bold, undeniable, staring back at me from my marble counter while “Jingle Bell Rock” plays faintly from downstairs. My throat tightens, and tears spring hot and immediate.
“Oh my God.” I press both hands to my face and laugh-cry because what else do you do when your entire world shifts on Christmas Eve and the love of your life is on his way to the airport in blissful ignorance?
“Merry freaking Christmas, Hailey.”
I glance at the clock—4:22 p.m. He’ll be home in less than two hours.
And I have absolutely no idea how to tell Cole Bristol he’s about to be a dad.
By 5:57, my nerves are a ticking time bomb.
The house smells like cinnamon and rosemary and a mild existential crisis. I’ve changed my outfit three times, cried once, and almost dropped the ham because my hands were shaking. The test is hidden in my nightstand drawer like a classified document, but I swear it’s glowing through the wood.
Every time I pass by the mirror, I whisper, “You’re fine. You’re just… hosting Christmas dinner. With a side of possible motherhood.”
I light a candle. Blow it out. Light it again. Then headlights flash across the window and my heart leaps into my throat.
Cole’s home. Oh God.
I hear doors slam, the muffled laughter of family, the thump of luggage on the porch.
My hands are trembling so badly I almost drop the wineglasses.
By the time the door opens and his deep voice rumbles through the entryway, “We’re here!
” I’m standing frozen in the kitchen, gripping a dish towel like a weapon.
Maddie barrels in first, snow-dusted and dramatic. “Oh my God, it’s like a Christmas card threw up in here.”
“Mission accomplished,” I manage to croak.
Then Cole appears behind her, cheeks pink from the cold, arms loaded with bags. The moment his eyes find me, something in my chest steadies and explodes at the same time. He’s grinning, relaxed, totally unaware that I’m seconds from fainting.
“Hey, baby,” he says softly, setting the bags down and leaning in to kiss me. “Miss me?”
“Uh-huh.” My voice cracks.
He pulls back just enough to frown. “You okay? You look a little pale.”
“Me? No, I mean, yes. I’m… fine. Totally fine. Just, you know, Christmas.”
His brows pinch. “You been running around too much again?”
“Maybe a little.”
He presses the back of his hand to my forehead, concern creasing his face. “You’re warm.”
“No, I’m just… hot from the oven.”