Page 39 of Chilled and Thrilled

I don’t get far, stopping dead halfway down the stairs as I gaze in bewilderment at the living room, which has been completely transformed since I went to bed.

In the corner beside the crackling fire, there is a real, honest-to-God Christmas tree, strung with white lights and ribbons and ornaments. Made of what appears to be regular white copy paper, paper chains crisscross the ceiling, interspersed with handmade snowflakes and more strings of Christmas lights.

It’s the most beautiful, magical thing I’ve ever seen, and all I can do is gape as I take the last few steps downstairs.

“Merry Christmas, Sophie.”

I whip around, my bottom lip trembling and heart full enough to burst. Bram is standing in the entrance to the kitchen, looking at me hopefully, as if there’s a universe where I could be anything other than overwhelmed with love for him doing this.

“What did you do?” I laugh, my voice wavering.

My overinflated heart lurches as he moves toward me. “I stayed up late.”

He must have been up all night to pull this off, an impression reinforced by the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “Bram. You didn’t have to!”

“I did.” He tucks my hair behind my ear, and as I’m still standing on the first stair, we’re eye to eye. “You deserve a good Christmas, Sophie. You spending the holiday alone for six years is… I can’t even think about it, sweetheart. It’s never going to happen again, though.”

At this point, I give up the battle with my tear ducts andbreak down completely, sobbing into his shoulder as Bram strokes my back. “I’m in love with you,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “I know I’m too damn old for you, and you’re too smart for me, and you’ll be walking into a whole host of drama with my kids, but I want this, sweetheart. I want you.”

It’s a struggle to get myself together, but when I do, I pull back enough to look at him properly and mop my eyes with the shoulder of my T-shirt. “I guess it’s a good thing I love you too, huh?”

Bram’s face splits in a huge smile. “A very good thing,” he agrees, and without wasting another moment, leans forward to kiss me deeply. It doesn’t last long. Soon, he’s pulled away and, brimming with boyish enthusiasm, takes my hand.

I permit myself to be pulled into the kitchen, and realize I was so overwhelmed by the elaborately decorated living room and the declarations of love, that I failed to notice the mouthwatering scent filling the house. The source is a tray of huge, sticky cinnamon rolls, sitting on top of the stove, steaming hot.

My mouth falls open. “Oh my god. Are you trying to kill me?”

“I’m trying to impress you. Is it working?” Bram asks mildly, directing me to my usual spot in the breakfast nook.

“Considering my eyes haven’t stopped watering since I saw all this, I would consider your mission successful.” I gaze up at him and my heart flutters at the crooked grin that meets this statement.

While Bram busies himself with maneuvering two of the cinnamon rolls onto plates, I crane my neck so I can see the decked-out tree in the living room. “Did you really go out and cut that down in the middle of the night?” I ask, spotting a collection of towels draped around the base, undoubtedly to catch dripping snow.

A warm chuckle greets my words. “I spotted it from the window yesterday.”

My mouth waters as he places the cinnamon roll in front of me and moves to take the seat across from mine. While I turn my fork over in my fingers, I make no move to bite into my breakfast. As Bram reaches toward his glass of water, my hand reaches over the table to touch his.

He stills, gazing at me, and there’s a fissure of worry in his warm eyes, as if he’s worried I’m about to tell him this isn’t a good idea again. “Thank you,” I tell him instead, “for doing all this. I know I haven’t been easy. I just—” my words falter, and it takes me a second to regroup. Bram waits patiently, like he understands that telling people my real feelings isn’t something I’m all that familiar with. “I want to be this good to you, too. I want to make you happy.”

“You do,” he assures me and, obviously sensing my skepticism, smiles. “At some point in the past year, it occurred to me that nobody has ever made me feel as good as you do, sweetheart. Just being around you is like stepping into the sun. Then, when we saw each other on the street that night?—”

“The night I puked on your shoes.”

He huffs, “Yes. That one. I saw your face, Sophie. I saw your face and it dawned on me that I’d been taking all that happiness, and all I’d given you in return was hurt. I never want to feel that way again.”

I release his hand and lean back in my seat. “That’s not all you gave me.”

“No?”

No. He’s given me respect, friendship, and care. Even when I was sure nothing would happen between us, there was never a time when I didn’t think Bram cared about me. That’s more than I can say about my family, or my work friends, or anyone except the Vogels.

As I start to reply, however, Bram winces. I watch as he pulls out his phone, staring down at the screen which I can see displaying the name Lenora Vogel.

“You should take that,” I rush to assure him, because what I have to say can wait. It’s Christmas, of course he should talk to his kids.

He nods and gets to his feet, stealing a quick kiss before turning and walking from the room, his cheerful greeting of, “Hey, Len. Merry Christmas,” carrying after him.

Positive Bram would want me to eat, I help myself to a bite of cinnamon roll and groan quietly. Holy shit, he is so far out of my league. How did I land a hot, successful older man who is a literal gourmet cook and wants to help me explore my every kinky fantasy? It seems way too good to be true, but while my anxious, insecure brain wants to find some other explanation for my wildly good fortune, I don’t allow myself to go there. My long-established pessimistic worldview has been torn to shreds in the past twenty-four hours, and for the first time in my life, I have a good feeling.

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