We listen together. No howling wind. No rattling shutters. Just quiet.
“It’s still pitch-black,” I say, my voice low. “Morning’s not close…or maybe it is, and the snow’s just blocking the light. Do you know what time it is?”
“Don’t know,” she murmurs, sinking deeper against me. “Don’t care.” Her contented sigh vibrates against my chest, and I tighten my hold on her like I could anchor this moment in time.
A yawn pulls at me, but instead of exhaustion, there’s a restless hum inside my veins. “Maybe we should try to get some more sleep,” I suggest, though even as I say it, I don’t want to move.
“I actually don’t want to sleep.”
I get it. Sleep feels like wasting something we’ll never get back. Despite what that drunk Santa said about there being no such thing as magic, tonight feels charged with it. Like the world outside has stopped, the storm locking us into a bubble of warmth and firelight where nothing else exists. I want to stay awake with her. To talk about everything and nothing, or sit in silence and just let her weight against me remind me I’m not alone.
“Want me to make coffee?” I ask, even though it’s the middle of the night.
She eyes me playfully. “You’re not going to do weird stuff to it are you.”
I laugh. “Never, and it’s you who does weird stuff—that I don’t want to know about—to your enemies’ coffee.”
“Yes, that’s true.” She stretches her arms wide, her sweater slipping from one shoulder, baring smooth skin to the flickering glow of the fire. I lean down and press a kiss to the side of her head, unable to resist. She makes this soft little sound—half sigh, half moan—and leans into me like she needs the contact just as much as I do.
“Go get under the blankets. I’ll be right back.” I help her to her feet, reluctant to let go even for a moment. She pads toward the sofa, wrapping herself in the throw while I head to the kitchen.
The space is dark and quiet, the only sound the drip and hiss of the coffeemaker as I pop in the pods I’d found last night. The smell blooms instantly, an aromatic richness filling the air. I fill two steaming mugs. Black, because there’s no milk or sugar to be found.
I head back to the door when something from the corner of my eye catches my attention. Was that…a racoon? Either I’m seeing things, or those strange noises came from that very swift mammal. I blink, but the vision is gone. Best not to mention it to Jay, partly because it might freak her out, and partly because it’s possible I’m seeing things.
When I return, she’s curled on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, staring into the fire. But the second she hears me, she turns with a smile so bright and genuine it slams into my chest like a fist. God. I don’t want this to end. But it will. It has to.
“Black okay?” I ask, offering her the mug. “It’s how I drink it, but I saw you put cream and sugar in yours at the inn.”
“It’s perfect.” She wraps her hands around it, cradling it between her palms. She inhales deeply, eyes fluttering shut. “Smells so good.”
I sink beside her, and she immediately tugs the blankets over both our legs, drawing me into her cocoon of warmth. Our shoulders brush. Our knees bump. So easy. So right.
“You know, we never did find the star,” I remind her, taking a sip.
She groans, tipping her head back. “God, I know.”
“If you were a gigantic star for a nativity set, where would you be?”
She blows on her coffee, steam spiraling into the air between us. “Hidden away in some storage room, probably. We need to find out who packed it up.”
“Whoever was in charge of the country club float, I’d guess.”
“That could be half the town,” she says, lips pursed in thought. “Hopefully by morning we’ll have better reception, and I can start making calls.”
She rests her head on my shoulder, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I feel her weight sink into me, her hair brushing my jaw, her breathing syncing with mine. Together, we sip our coffee in silence, the crackle of the fire and the occasional pop of sparks the only sounds in the room.
And damn it, I don’t think I’ve ever been more content in my life. Not in the locker room after a win, not even in the quiet moments alone when everything should’ve felt good but never really did.
This—her, here with me—feels right.
But it’s not real.
At least, it’s not supposed to be. Sure, the sex was great, and being with her feels effortless, but at the end of the day we’re trading favors, aren’t we? She needed a fake fiancé. I needed an image adjustment.
Except it isn’t simple anymore. Because the fiancé part might be pretend, but the rest—the warmth, the intimacy, the way my chest tightens just looking at her—that’s all terrifyingly real. And that…that’s not good. Especially since I’m still not convinced a part of this is because she wants Dylan back.
“Jay.” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be.