I had promised him Christmas evening, and the closer the day moved toward night, the more that promise seemed to fill the room.
By evening, I had changed into a brown wool sweater and jeans, my hair twisted into a loose bun that kept slipping while I moved between the kitchen and the living room. Dinner was almost ready. I had cooked more than I needed to, roast chicken with rosemary, potatoes crisping at the edges, honey-glazed carrots, green beans, and a small apple tart cooling near the window. It was too much food for two adults and a four-year-old, but my hands had needed something to do.
The apartment had gone quiet after a full day of voices, laughter, and company. The coats were gone from the chairs, the coffee cups had been cleared, and the room had settled into a hush that felt almost strange after so much noise. The tree still glowed in the corner. A few gifts remained beneath it. Snowy sat tucked near Helena’s blanket, one floppy ear bent in a way Helena had insisted was “her thinking face.”
Mrs. Graham was away for the Christmas break, so it was only Helena and me. Outside, rain moved down the windows in thick lines, blurring the city beyond the glass. It was not snow,though the cold had sharpened enough to make the apartment feel warmer.
Helena played near the tree, singing to Snowy while I checked the food for the third time and wiped down a counter that was already clean.
I was waiting for Hayden. I had promised him Christmas evening, and now that evening had arrived, the promise sat everywhere around me. My pulse knew it. My eyes kept finding the door. Every sound from the hallway made my body react before my mind could talk it down. I told myself it was foolish to feel nervous. After everything, anticipation should have been the last thing I allowed myself.
My body did not care.
So when the knock finally came, solid against the door, I knew who it was before Helena even looked up.
“Who is it?” she asked.
I glanced toward her and tried to sound calmer than I felt. “I think that might be Uncle Hayden.”
Her face brightened at once, and she started scrambling up from the carpet.
“Wait,” I said, unable to stop a small laugh. “Let me open the door first.”
She stopped only because I gave her the look mothers used when they meant it, though she still bounced on her feet while I crossed the room.
I opened the door.
And there he was.
For one suspended second, all I could do was look at him.
He stood beneath the hallway light with rain darkening his coat, a gift bag in one hand, red roses in the other, and a bottle of wine tucked beneath his arm. No man had any right to look that hot and sexy.
My body reacted before I could stop it, heat pooling deep in my stomach, my thighs pressing together as if that could hide the betrayal. I hated him a little for it. I hated myself more. Hayden Stone stood there rain-soaked and devastating, and every careful argument I had made with myself that evening went uselessly quiet.
His hair was damp, darker from the rain, the ends slightly disordered. His glasses caught the hallway light when his gaze settled on me, and God, that should not have mattered as much as it did.
The roses in his hand. The cold still clinging to his coat. Those damn glasses. The way he looked at me as if he could see exactly where my thoughts had gone and enjoyed watching me try to survive them.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence between us was full of memory, want, hurt, and every unfinished thing we had carried into this doorway. It was only Hayden standing there on Christmas evening, yet my body seemed to understand the danger of him before the rest of me could catch up.
Then we both said, “Hey,” at the same time.
His mouth shifted first, the smallest break in all that dark control. “Hey,” he said again, softer this time.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the door. “Hey.”
He lifted the gift bag. “This is for Helena.”
Then he held out the roses and wine, his eyes still on mine. “And these are for you.”
“For me?” I asked, hating the breathlessness in my voice.
“Unless someone else in there has earned roses tonight.”
That almost made me laugh, though the sound caught when he stepped closer. The cold from the hallway moved in with him, meeting the warmth of the apartment in the narrow space between us.
I took the flowers from his hand. The petals were cool against my fingers, and the scent of roses rose between us. He handed me the wine next, his hand brushing mine for less than a second, yet my body answered as if he had touched me with intent.
