Six
Isla
E vangeline is a firm believer that cookies have magical healing powers. She’s got me convinced her Peppermint Snowballs are Santa’s version of penicillin. They soothe pains big and small, physical and emotional.
Christmas concert mishap? Cookie .
Chairlift catastrophe? Cookie .
Being trapped under the same roof with a man whose proximity fuels dangerous fantasies of both the smothering and smooching kind? Definitely a cookie.
Hell, maybe even three.
That existential crisis—combined with a sudden bout of insomnia—has me padding down the hallway in light-up tree socks and an oversized pajama shirt that reads: Santa’s Not the Only One Coming Tonight .
Beneath the pink and gold lettering, a lingerie-clad Mrs. Claus straddles a glittery reindeer reverse cowgirl–style.
Willow gave it to me last year as a gag gift, and I fully intended for it to rot in the shame-shadowed corner of my closet.
Instead, the buttery soft fabric seduced me, ensuring the festive atrocity is now a permanent fixture in my sleepwear drawer.
And while I may not be proud, I am comfortable.
Aggressively so.
My path to the kitchen is bathed by the silvery light of the full moon and the occasional flicker of the colorful bulbs strapped to my feet.
The house is submerged in a sacred kind of quiet.
When my foot connects with a creaky floorboard, I flinch at the squeak that shatters the stillness.
Breath catching, I search for signs I’ve disturbed the peace.
Nothing .
Rising on my tiptoes, I exhale and forge on, convinced I’ve escaped unnoticed.
Everyone is tucked away in their beds. Not a creature is stirring, not even— crap .
I stop in my tracks as the open-concept space comes into view. My hands press to my stomach, steadying me against its sudden drop.
Theo’s unexpected presence sends a jolt of adrenaline through me. It knocks the air from my lungs, tangling my thoughts beyond repair.
A moment passes before my brain reboots, and the scene in front of me sharpens into focus.
He’s propped against the counter, his hand wrapped around one of Evangeline’s snowy landscape mugs. The thin fabric of his white T-shirt clings to his torso, highlighting the definition of his pectorals and the hard, flat lines of his abs.
A string of lights on the cabinets above paints a soft, amber glow across his olive-toned skin, casting faint shadows over the sharp edge of his jaw and its dusting of stubble.
His dark hair has a rumpled look to it. Almost like he’s been running his fingers through it on repeat. I’m seized by an absurd impulse to reach out and smooth it down.
Or better yet— mess it up more .
Theo looks up.
As our eyes connect, I’m struck by another sizzling jolt.
My stupid heart didn’t get the memo to keep it together tonight.
For a few shared breaths, neither of us speaks. The air thickens, vibrating with a tension I feel on my skin, in my pulse, deep within the pit of my stomach.
Every-freaking-where .
He breaks the silence by clearing his throat. “Can’t sleep?” His voice is a low, raspy rumble that sinks into my bones and brushes up along other places I’d rather not engage in this betrayal of mind and body.
I shrug, forcing a nonchalance I don’t feel. “Cookie emergency.”
He nods toward the tin on the island. “Mom’s cure-all?”
“The one and only.” As I move through the space, I’m hyperaware of his gaze. There is a physicality in his perusal that slides across my bare flesh, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.
Popping open the metallic lid, I grab a snowflake-shaped cookie and indulge in a bite. Its buttery sweetness melts on my tongue, and I use every ounce of self-control to hold back the moan that threatens to slip out past my lips.
So, so good .
Evangeline’s recycled containers never disappoint. In all my years at the Thorne house, I’ve never found one empty—or worse, packed with rogue sewing supplies.
The sugary reprieve helps me wrestle back around thirty percent of my faculties. The rest have apparently fled the scene for good. I turn and nod at Theo’s drink. “Milk?”
He shakes his head, tilting the mug until amber liquid catches the light. “Something a bit stronger.” His gaze sharpens, glinting with an unreadable energy as he takes a slow sip.
For as long as I’ve known him, Theo has been disciplined to a fault when it comes to alcohol. The man is so Type A, he controls control. The fact he’s on his third— fourth? —drink tonight messes with my internal compass.
“How very merry of you.” I lean against the counter opposite him, mirroring his detached posture, even as my pulse kicks up with the urge to provoke him. “Trying to recover from your team’s charades humiliation?”
“Trying to survive this week.” His eyes slide to my mouth when I take another bite of the cookie, pausing on my lips for enough time to make me heat all over.
My nipples tighten, grazing the fabric of my shirt, so I casually cross my arms, hoping my lack of a bra stays unnoticed.
“Don’t worry.” I force a smile. “The time will pass in a flash.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Before I can ask him to elaborate on the cryptic statement, his gaze drops, skimming over the picture on my front.
“You look… festive .”
“Sexually empowered Mrs. Claus. Courtesy of your sister.” Freeing one arm from my chest, I use it to tug down the hem of my shirt.
As if an inch of fabric can do much for my exposed legs .
I suddenly regret not dressing more warmly for my pantry raid, but I doubt even a full head-to-toe snowsuit would make any difference.
Theo’s focus falls to my socks, so I wiggle my toes to activate the bulbs. “These are all me, of course.”
“You’ve always had a penchant for interactive footwear.” He lets out a low laugh. It’s a familiar sound that reminds me of decadent chocolate.
The urge to taste it assaults my senses.
That’s it. Both my body and mind are grounded when we get back to bed.
But it’s not all bad. Theo’s expression softens for the first time in forever.
If his laughter is velvety sin, his smile is sunlight amid a storm. Bright enough to burn, yet so rare it feels sacred.
That’s why I rush to keep things going.
“Last year’s belted out ‘Jingle Bells,’” I explain. “Jovie kept pressing them and draining the battery. Then they devolved into sounding like Gremlins and scared the shit out of her.” I grin at the memory. “You’ve missed out on some good designs over the years.”
At those words, Theo’s eyes darken, and my smile instantly shrinks.
“So, what’s your excuse for being up at this ungodly hour?” I ask, grasping at straws now.
Why do I care if he keeps talking?
He sets his mug down with a soft clink before pushing off the counter. His features harden as he approaches, all trace of amusement vanishing from his face. When he leans over, the swift, powerful move shifts the air around us.
“Are you and my brother sleeping together? ”
It takes a moment for my thoughts to catch up. My limbic system flails as my brain scrambles to kick into action.
“Ash and I are a couple.” I grit my teeth and thrust my voice into the same level of detached cool he so often doles out.
“We have plenty of space," he says. "What's wrong with the room you use all other visits?"
If he’d bothered to show up for any of the holidays, he’d know that was his room.
Evangeline exorcises it of his presence before I arrive—disinfects, vacuums, changes the sheets—but traces of his scent always linger. Fresh nature and crisp cologne. Light enough to feel like a memory, but sufficiently present to spark one too many fantasies.
I love sleeping in Theo’s room.
Obviously, only because he has the best mattress in the house.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Our height difference forces me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, but I refuse to squirm under the weight of his stern stare. “Separate rooms for two consenting adults in a romantic relationship would be wasteful.”
He doesn’t need to know that Asher is currently camped out next to the bed on a couple of old bean bags. The guy has an uncanny ability to pass out anywhere. Floors, cars, bathtubs—he’s tackled them all. He’d probably survive a snowbank in a pinch.
“Sleeping apart would be… inefficient ,” I needle. “Don’t you think?”
“ No .” Theo’s response is delivered with a deliciously harsh edge that sends a shiver down my spine.
The space between us feels impossibly hot now. The scent of his skin—clean and earthy—entwines with traces of mint and whiskey on his breath. I’m suddenly very aware of how close he’s standing .
I ignore the buzz coursing through me, focusing instead on the half-eaten treat in my hand. The white and blue sugar crystals morph into an oddly captivating distraction.
“I don’t get it,” he grits out, irritation lacing each syllable. “The two of you have ne—”
“Is it that hard to believe a Thorne man might find me appealing enough to fuck?”
The cover of the night has loosened my tongue. I should watch my mouth or risk regretting my words in the morning, but the reaction my question draws out of Theo makes the risk worthwhile.
“ Isla .” My name spills out like a curse. His eyes dim, forest-green swallowed by dilating pupils, as if the very sight of me hurts.
“ Theo .” I curse him right back.
Because…
How dare he— this ?
We’re both breathing faster now—when that shift occurred, I have no idea—and the flex of frustration oscillating between us is so palpable it stings.
I savor the discomfort, a small hum of satisfaction vibrating through me. I’m getting a perverse amount of enjoyment from watching his control fray.
“Look…” Theo scrubs a hand over his face, a grimace pulling at his features. “Asher and Sienna have a long history.”
“He and I have a longer one,” I shoot back. The only thing that could make me seem more childish would be sticking out my tongue at him.
“I’m just—” He blows out a sharp breath. “My hopeless romantic of a brother even managed to get his hands on a ring.”
“You’re worried about him,” I say, softening .
Honestly, so am I—hence this entire stupid agreement. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Asher is burying his wounded feelings beneath a mountain of jokes and laughter, hoping no one picks up on how good he’s become at faking fine when he’s so far from it.
“Not just him. You’re no one’s rebound, Isla. You’re—”
“A grown-ass adult,” I remind him. “Who can make her own choices in life. I don’t need relationship advice from you.”
Especially not from him.
Six years ago, I’d stupidly let myself be deceived by his attention. The guidance, comfort, and kindness he showed me tricked me into wanting something that could never be mine.
I’m not making that mistake again.
To crush the feeling, I do the only logical thing and pop the rest of the cookie between my lips.
The move has Theo’s focus snapping to my mouth. Tension ripples through his forearms and his hands tighten at his sides.
I’m immediately transfixed.
Those hands have always struck me as… intentional .
Skilled.
All-consuming.
I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit imagining what his touch might feel like if it went beyond the occasional accidental brush.
Tender enough to have me begging? Or so brutal it singes?
In my fantasies, I’ve gotten off to both.
As if getting a glimpse into my mind, Theo fists his hands and shoves them deep into the pockets of his sweatpants. He takes a step back, severing the connection between us, and my heart squeezes .
As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t want him to retreat. I want him to stay tangled in this uncomfortable, fragile moment with me.
To step forward, close the distance, and—
“You should get some sleep,” he orders, voice bruised by roughness.
“Agreed.”
I’m clearly not thinking straight.
I will my feet to move, triggering the lights on my socks. “Good night, Theo.”
“Night, Isla,” he says with the faintest of nods.
As I rush out of the room, his gaze sears my back.
I tell myself it means nothing, but somewhere deep inside, hope stirs. It’s a dangerous, unbidden thing I have no business indulging.
My heart promises to snuff it out by morning.
As long as I let it linger tonight.