"To find a solution that doesn't require either of us to sacrifice what matters." His thumbs trace circles on my wrists, a soothing gesture. "I'm a problem-solver by nature, remember? And this is the most important problem I've ever needed to solve."
Hope flutters in my chest. "And have you? Solved it?"
Something shifts in his expression, determination mingling with a vulnerability that catches me off guard. "I think so. But tonight isn't the time to discuss logistics and five-year plans."
"When is?"
"Soon," he promises. "But right now, there's mistletoe above us, and I believe there are traditions to uphold."
I glance up, spotting the sprig of green tied with a red ribbon above our heads. "Very convenient."
"I may have noticed it earlier," he admits, drawing me closer. "Strategic planning is my specialty, after all."
"Sneaky CEO," I murmur as his lips hover just above mine.
"Only for you," he whispers, closing the distance between us.
The kiss begins softly, a gentle press of lips that quickly deepens as I melt against him. His arms wrap around my waist, drawing me flush against the hard planes of his chest as my hands slide into his hair. The familiar heat builds between us,turning the innocent mistletoe tradition into something far more heated.
When we finally break apart, both breathing harder, I notice we've attracted an audience through the glass doors, Brynn giving an enthusiastic thumbs up, Jenna pretending not to watch while smiling into her champagne, and Vivienne looking smugly satisfied with the entire situation.
"So much for discretion," I laugh, pressing my forehead to his chest momentarily.
"I think that ship sailed when I couldn't stop staring at you during board calls," he admits, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Marcus started scheduling extra breaks just so I could text you."
"Poor Marcus," I say, imagining the assistant's quiet accommodation of his boss's obvious distraction. "He deserves a bonus."
"Already arranged." Atticus presses a kiss to my forehead. "Along with one for Jenna, who has apparently been 'Team Atticus and Sloane' since that charity gala last year."
"Is that what we are? A team?" The question slips out before I can stop it, revealing more vulnerability than I intended.
His expression softens as he cups my cheek. "We're whatever you want us to be, Sloane. Partners. Lovers." His voice drops lower. "Everything."
The word resonates through me, perfect in its simplicity and scope. "Everything," I repeat, liking how it feels. "I can work with that."
"Good." He tucks me against his side, his warmth a shield against the winter chill. "Now, shall we go back inside before the gossip evolves from 'they're definitely together' to 'they're definitely up to something on the terrace'?"
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have all evening. "Lead the way, Mr. Morgan."
As we reenter the gala, his hand warm and steady at the small of my back, I push aside thoughts of inevitable separations and uncertain futures. Tonight is about celebrating what we've built, the Winter Division, the community partnerships, and this unexpected, wonderful thing between us.
Tomorrow's problems can wait for tomorrow.
Tonight, I'm exactly where I want to be: by Atticus Morgan's side, under the twinkling lights of a Hope Peak holiday gala, and feeling for the first time in my life like I've found where I truly belong.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of dancing, champagne toasts, and the warm buzz of a community coming together in celebration. Through it all, Atticus remains close, his hand finding mine, his eyes seeking me across the room, small touches and private smiles creating an intimate conversation beneath the public festivities.
By the time the gala winds down, past midnight with only the most dedicated revelers remaining, exhaustion and champagne have softened the edges of my earlier worries. When Atticus whispers "Ready to go?" against my ear, his breath sending shivers down my spine, I nod without hesitation.
We say our goodbyes, accepting congratulations on the event's success and promising to meet various people for coffee or meetings in the coming days. Vivienne kisses both our cheeks, whispering something to Atticus that makes his eyes widen momentarily before he composes himself.
"What was that about?" I ask as we step into the cold night air, his arm warm around my waist.
"Mother being Mother," he replies cryptically, guiding me toward his waiting SUV. "My place or yours?"
The easy question, asked almost nightly now, sends warmth spreading through me despite the winter chill. "Yours," I decide."The fireplace and the ridiculously large bathtub made quite the impression last time."
His smile is slow and full of promise. "I seem to recall you being impressed with other features as well."
