Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Ash
Holly’s handwriting is terrible.
I’m talking… catastrophic. Letters shaped like confused worms, backward S’s, an occasional heart dotting an i that absolutely should not be dotted with a heart.
Normally it’s charming.
Tonight it guts me.
I find the letter tucked under her pillow while I’m checking to make sure she’s asleep after the gala.
The firehouse was a late night, and she crashed the moment we got home.
I tuck her blanket higher, brush her hair away from her forehead, and see the corner of the envelope sticking out addressed to Santa in red crayon, a crooked star next to his name.
She’s forgotten to put it in her stocking like she usually does.
So I slide it out carefully, planning to help her deliver it tomorrow, and then I read it.
My chest squeezes so tight it hurts.
Dear Santa,
Please help Uncle Ash not be lonely. He works so hard. And he gets sad when he thinks I’m not looking.
Please send him someone who can fix his heart. I think Miss Lucy can. She makes him smile for real. Not just his pretend one.
Love, Holly
My knees go weak. I sit on the edge of her bed and just… stare at her handwriting until the words blur. God. This kid. She sees everything. Everything I try to lock down. Everything I tell myself I’m hiding.
Lonely.
Is that what she sees when she looks at me? Maybe she’s right. Maybe she’s always been right.
I fold the letter carefully, sliding it back where I found it. Holly sighs in her sleep, hugging her teddy bear tighter.
My throat tightens.
Miss Lucy can fix him.
I scrub a hand over my face, dragging in a breath. The girl’s six. Six. But somehow she’s the only person on the damn mountain who can cut straight through the armor I’ve built.
And she’s not wrong. Lucy is the only person who’s made me feel alive in months.
Years.
I push up from the bed and head into the living room, needing water, air, anything to keep my brain from spinning itself into a knot.
But before I make it three steps there’s a knock. My heart kicks. I open the door. Lucy is standing on my porch, snowflakes caught in her hair, cheeks flushed from the cold, breath fogging in the air… holding a tiny pair of pink mittens.
She lifts them weakly. “Holly left these in the car.”
I should say thank you.
I should say come in out of the cold.
I should say literally anything normal.
But that all goes straight out the window because Lucy’s eyes dip to my torso and widen.
Right. I’m shirtless. I forgot I pulled off my dress shirt the moment I got home because it was suffocating me after the near-kiss at the firehouse under the goddamn mistletoe.
We both freeze.
The snow falls harder, silent and slow, dusting her hair and shoulders. Her gaze drags down my chest, stops at my stomach, skims back up. She swallows.
“Uh,” she says, voice barely working. “Sorry. I should’ve texted.”
“You’re fine,” I manage. My voice sounds lower than normal. Rougher. “Come in.”
She hesitates only a second before stepping inside. The warmth hits her immediately — she shivers, brushing snow from her coat sleeve. I take the mittens from her, our fingers brushing, and the contact sears like a live wire.
She licks her lips, nervous. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. I just—after the gala—I wasn’t sure she’d need them tomorrow, so—”
“You’re not interrupting anything.”
Liar.
She interrupts everything.
My thoughts. My balance. My ability to breathe normally.
Lucy steps deeper into the room, hugging her arms to her chest. “I guess I should go…”
“No,” I say too quickly. “Stay. If you want.”
Her breath catches.
“Cocoa?” I ask, nodding toward the kitchen before I talk myself out of it.
For a split second, she searches my face like she’s trying to figure out whether I’m asking as the friendly neighbor… or as the man who nearly kissed her the last time I saw her.
She nods softly. “Yeah. Cocoa sounds nice.”
I turn away so she won’t see the way my jaw flexes with relief.
Making cocoa gives my hands something to do.
I boil the milk, add the mix, sprinkle the cinnamon Holly insists on even though she claims she hates it.
Lucy wanders to the window, watching the snow fall, her silhouette outlined in the warm yellow light.
Her hair still sparkles with melting flakes. She looks beautiful. Too beautiful.
I hand her a mug. Our fingers brush again, and her breath shivers. She looks up at me through her lashes.
“Thank you.”
The words shouldn’t hit as low as they do.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, legs angled, knees almost touching. The fire crackles in the wood stove. Outside, the snow glows under the porch light.
We’re alone. Quiet stretches, thick and warm.
I take a sip, set my mug down. “You did good tonight.”
She laughs. “I didn’t trip once. That’s rare for me.”
“I’m talking about the gala. You made the whole place brighter.”
“Flattery,” she teases lightly, “from the guy who ran away from mistletoe.”
I cough. “That’s not—”
“Oh, that’s exactly what happened,” she says, poking my knee with her toe. “You bolted.”
“I didn’t bolt.”
“You vanished so fast, I’m shocked you didn’t leave behind a cartoon dust cloud.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Maybe I was keeping us out of trouble.”
She goes still. “Is that what you think we are? Trouble?”
I study her.
The firelight warms her face. Her lips are softly curved, eyes too bright, too curious, too open. The red dress is mostly hidden under her coat, but the neckline still glows like a warning sign.
“Yes,” I say. “And I’ve been trying real hard to stay on the right side of that line.”
“Why?” She whispers.
I lean back on the couch, trying to find space between us that doesn’t exist. “Because once I cross that line, Lucy, I’m not crossing back.”
Her inhale is sharp. “You talk like that’s a bad thing.”
“It should be,” I say. “Should be a disaster.”
“Should be,” she agrees softly. “But is it?”
God, this woman.
I want her. I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in years. And Holly’s letter sits in my pocket like a goddamn spark plug.
Lucy takes a sip of cocoa and sets the mug down gently. The muffled thud echoes in my skull. She tucks her hair behind her ear — a small, nervous gesture that makes my pulse spike.
“You kept looking at me tonight,” she says.
“You noticed.”
“You weren’t subtle, Ash.”
I drag in a breath. “I’m not good at being subtle.”
She smiles, flustered but brave. “I liked it.”
Silence cracks open between us.
“Lucy,” I say, voice low. “I need you to understand something.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“I can’t imagine a Christmas without you.”
She freezes. Her chest rises slowly, breath trembling, lips parting as if she’s trying to speak but can’t quite find the words.
“Ash…” she whispers.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped. “You fit here. With me. With Holly. With… everything. I didn’t expect that. Didn’t want to expect that. But I can’t pretend it’s not happening.”
She swallows hard. Her gaze flicks to the bedroom where Holly sleeps, then back to me.
“I didn’t expect any of this either,” she admits. “You’re… a lot.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah. I know.”
“But you’re also… good.” Her voice softens. “And steady. And impossible to ignore.”
My heart stutters. She edges closer — barely a shift, her knee brushing mine. A soft jolt of heat shoots up my leg. Her eyes drop to where our knees touch, and she exhales shakily.
“Ash?” she murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“If you’re trying to be careful, you’re doing a terrible job.”
“I know.” My voice is quiet, raw. “Because every time I’m near you, I forget why I’m supposed to be.”
Her lips curve — small, stunned, aching. I reach out before I can stop myself, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Her breath shivers. She leans — barely — into the touch.
I don’t pull back. Neither does she.
Her hand lifts, fingertips grazing my jaw. My breath catches. Her thumb sweeps along the line of my cheekbone, slow and warm. It’s nothing. Just a touch. But it’s also everything.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say, voice thick.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m the only thing in the room.”
Her lips part. “Ash… maybe you are.”
That does it. I move without thinking. My hand slides to her waist, pulling her closer. Her breath catches, her fingers curling lightly against my neck.
We’re inches apart. Too close. Not close enough. Her eyes flick to my mouth, and her voice breaks in a whisper: “I don’t want to leave tonight.”
My control fractures.
“Lucy,” I murmur, “don’t say that unless you mean it.”
Her fingers tighten at the back of my neck.
“I mean it.”
A sound leaves me — rough, low, half a curse. I lean in until my forehead meets hers, breathing her in, fighting the urge to close the last inch between us.
Her hands slide down my chest, slow, gentle, shaking.
“Ash…” she breathes.
I cup her face, thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ve wanted you since the first minute I saw you.”
She swallows hard. “Then why haven’t you—”
“Because once I start,” I say roughly, “there’s no stopping. Not with you.”
She trembles. “Ash…”
We stay like that, suspended between a choice and a fall, breaths tangled, bodies nearly touching. Then a soft creak from the hallway. Holly rolls over in bed. We freeze. Our foreheads still touching. Our breaths still shared. But neither of us moves another inch.
Her fingers slip from my chest. My hands loosen on her waist. The spell breaks—not because we wanted it to, but because reality nudged in just enough to stop us from crossing the line we’re both desperate to cross.
Lucy exhales shakily. “I should… go.”
I nod, slowly, chest tight. “Yeah.”
She stands, pulling her coat tighter, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a way that almost destroys me.
I walk her to the door.
She steps out onto the porch, snow swirling around her. She turns back, meeting my gaze.
“This was…” She trails off.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “It was.”
She bites her lip, breath fogging the air. “Goodnight, Ash.”
“Goodnight, Lucy.”
She walks down the path, boots crunching softly in the snow. I watch until she reaches her cabin, until her light switches on, until I’m sure she’s safe. Only then do I close the door and lean back against it, pulse still wrecked.
Because Holly’s letter wasn’t wrong.
I’m lonely.
But not anymore. Not when Lucy Snow is turning my whole damn world upside down. Not when she looked at me tonight like she wanted to stay. Not when I can finally admit—I want her to.