Because it’s the closest I’ve been to something soft in years.
She shifts again, rolling away, arm slipping off me. The mattress cools where her body was, and I feel the loss like a door slamming shut that I wasn’t ready to leave through.
She settles, breath even, asleep again.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, pulse hammered into my throat, every nerve awake and aching. My hands stay at my sides because that’s the line. That’s the rule. She’s asleep. She didn’t choose this. I’m not going to be the man who takes wanting and turns it into something selfish.
But I also can’t unfeel this.
I’ve been a lot of things—soldier, son, grandson, business owner, ghost of Christmas Past, grudging carriage operator—but I don’t remember the last time I felt… wanted. Needed. Safe to touch.
Even if it wasn’t really me she was reaching for. Even if it was just a dream.
I stare into the dark until my eyes burn. I try to slow my breathing. Try to empty my head. It doesn’t work.
Because somewhere between the couch and the loft, between keeping my distance and keeping her warm, something in me cracked open.
I like her here.
I like her in my cabin, in my bed, against my chest, trusting me without even knowing she’s doing it.
And I don’t have the first clue what to do with that.
So I lie still, wide awake, letting the storm beat against the walls, and I stay exactly where I am—close enough to feel her breathing, far enough not to cross a line I can’t uncross.
And I hope sleep finds me before I do something stupid.
Like want this for more than one night.
Like want her.
SEVEN
IVY
The bed is warm when I wake up.
Too warm.
Like someone else was just here.
I stretch, blinking sleep from my eyes, and the cabin creaks around me. The quilt is still tucked around my legs, and the sun—low and lazy—filters through the loft window, casting golden stripes across the wood floor. It smells like coffee and something buttery and perfect, and for a moment, I melt into the scent.
And then I remember the dream.
The one where Rhett was inthisbed.
With me.
It felt so real. Like, absurdly real. Vivid in a way dreams rarely are. I swear I could feel his chest under my hand. Solid. Steady. Then racing, like my touch set off an alarm he didn’t expect. His breath against my skin. My lips brushing his cheek. The weight of his presence next to me.
But it was just a dream.
Ithadto be.
I mean—there’s no way the world’s grumpiest sleigh man climbed into bed with me last night, right? He’s too principled. Too closed off. Too Rhett.
Still… I glance at the spot beside me. The covers look a little rumpled. There’s a faint indent in the pillow I definitely didn’t make. My fingers twitch like they remember the shape of him. My palm tingles where I swear I felt his heartbeat.
