I snatch up the dish towel and swat him across the chest. “Don’t start! He’s your employee!”
Grant leans against the counter, maddeningly calm. “And what exactly am I supposed to do, Es? Intimidate him into silence? Pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure my murder is gonna be illegal too, and that’s exactly what’ll happen if Marlow hears this from anyone but us… me!”
“Breathe,” he says softly, tilting his head as if the weight of my panic doesn’t scare him at all. “Take a breath for me, hmm? It’s going to be fine.”
And damn him. He knows how to settle the storm raging inside me, even if he’s the one still stirring up the hurricane in my panties.
He leans in, feigning interest in the bottle of wine beside me, but at the last second dips down, brushing his lips against my cheek in a kiss so quick and soft it steals my breath.
“Would you stop it?” I hiss, smacking his chest even as my skin warms where his mouth just was. “You’re gonna get us caught!”
“Speaking of which,” he murmurs, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, sending a shiver straight down my spine, “when do you think we should tell her?”
“I don’t know!” My voice comes out sharp, hushed, as I swat at him again. “Every time we try to figure out the best approach, I end up pinned to a wall or a countertop by your penis!”
Grant throws his head back and laughs—loud, unapologetic, and it fills a room. “You say the craziest things,” he manages between chuckles, his eyes shining with mischief.
“And you’re just plain crazy,” I counter, but there’s no bite in it. Only fondness.
Only love.
“For you, Eslin Saunders? Guilty as charged.” His grin softens, his hand slipping down my arm until his fingers curl around mine. “But… just for a little longer, can we keep this? Ours. Just ours. Without the questions. Without the speculations. The press has moved on, the story’s dead. We can wait another week or two.”
I study him, the boyish smile, the warmth in his eyes, and even though the turmoil still twists inside me, I nod. “Alright. Another week.Maybetwo.” I relent.
“Good.” His voice dips lower, almost secretive. “Because I want to take you away. Next weekend. To the lake house Will, Xavier, and I own. Just us. No hiding, no interruptions. Just you and me for a few days where we can be out in the open.”
The thought of it makes my heart trip. I lean closer, whispering, “I can’t wait.” Then, quick as a thief, I steal a kiss from his lipsbefore we step into the living room. Me holding the tray of class cups and Grant bringing the bowl of eggnog.
The scent of pine greets us immediately. In the corner stands the most beautiful live Christmas tree I’ve ever seen, delivered and waiting just for this. Branches reach high, wide, their needles fresh and green. Boxes of ornaments litter the floor, and everyone is encouraged to either hang something meaningful or make their own at the craft table set up by the house staff.
There are tiny soccer balls painted silver and gold, delicate glass boots with little cleats. For Matteo, ornaments painted in bright reds and greens with Mexican embroidery patterns; for Declan, miniature gondolas, hand-painted Italian flags, and one lopsided Santa riding a Vespa. Laughter fills the air as the tree slowly comes to life.
Declan slips a hand low and grabs Marlow on the butt, making her squeak and nearly drop the ornament in her hand.
“You okay, munchkin?” Grant asks, watching her curiously.
Marlow waves him off, cheeks flaming. “Fine! Totally fine.”
“You sure?” I tease. “You seem really jumpy!”
Marlow shoots me a murderous glare.
I laugh, but my stomach still twists at the sight of her. Watching her, the ease with which she gravitates to me, always pulling me in—into her secrets, her family, her joy. She trusts me in ways I don’t deserve. And I hate myself for keeping anything from her.
Declan clears his throat and lifts his phone. “Alright, enough chatter. We need some proper Christmas inspiration. Music.”
A cheer goes up around the room because as much as everyone loves soccer, the muted drone of the match isn’t exactly tree-trimming material.
We brace for Michael Bublé, maybe some Italian carols in honor of Declan’s roots. Hell, I would’ve even settled for a little Motown.
Instead, the opening chords that come crashing through the Bluetooth speaker stop us all cold.
“My favorite Christmas album,” Declan declares, grinning.
We all glance around the room, wide-eyed, trying to process what we’re hearing—Justin Timberlake and the rest of the boys crooning“Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays”at full blast.
