Page 54 of Christmas Treasures

Bianca stood on the snow-dusted driveway, her mittened hands tucked under her arms, her face unreadable in that way kids get when they don’t understand something but know it matters too much to ask about. A single tear trembled on her lashes.

He secured the twine with fingers that felt numb, brushing snow off the branches without looking at her. When he turned, she was already climbing into the back seat, the door closing with a click.

She didn’t ask where they were going.

He didn’t tell her.

They just sat there for a moment, the heater warming the car, their breath fogging the windows, cocooning them in a cloud of disappointment and hurt.

He glanced back at Charlie’s house. The curtains were drawn now, no sign of movement behind the glass. He started the engine, its rumble filling the silence, shifted into gear, and pulled away, leaving behind a trail of green needles on white snow. Evidence she would see in the morning.

14

CHARLIE

She didn’t even put on shoes. The second the door closed behind Max and Bianca, Charlie turned and walked through the kitchen like a ghost. Past the table, past the timer she’d forgotten to set, past the oven where something warm and cinnamon-sweet baked.

She pulled open her French doors and stepped onto the patio. Cold air hit her bare ankles as she turned to slam the doors shut behind her. But she didn’t care. She needed to be with her plants. Stumbling from the patio into the snow-covered grass, she headed toward her greenhouse. Snow seeped through her socks, numbing her feet. Still, she didn’t stop.

The greenhouse waited for her. A warm world trapped in glass. Her world. The only place she could care for something and not kill it in the process. She went inside, a rush of warmth and green scent greeting her. Condensation blurred the edges of the glass. The plants lush and orderly in their trays and beds were as she’d left them. Growing. Thriving. She’d built this from nothing. But why? What did any of itmatter? She was too broken to love. Too battered for anyone to love her.

She crossed to the far table and yanked out bunches of winter kale. Roots snapped. Soil scattered. The bin underneath caught only half of it. She didn’t care. Then came the chard. She ripped it out by the handful. A sprouting tray of lettuces she’d babied for weeks? She plucked them from their containers and threw them against the glass wall.

It wasn’t Max. It wasn’t the tree that had triggered such a negative response. Even in her anger she could see that. It was every time a man had handed her something she didn’t ask for and called it a gift. The tech bros who laughed behind her back and parroted her code as if it were their own. The venture capitalist who told her she was “too emotional” to be the face of her company. The mentor who’d told her she was brilliant, and then tried to kiss her in a boardroom elevator. The endless meetings where she was talked over. Smiled at. Dismissed. Called sweetheart.

And now Max.

He was not cruel. Or arrogant. Certainly not dismissive. And yet he was a man who thought he knew what she needed better than she did. But it hadn’t been her choice. He hadn’t listened to her. He’d thought he could save her by a sweet gesture. As though she were normal. But she wasn’t. She was broken. Too broken for a man like Max Hayes. He’d lost someone, too, but it had not destroyed him. His foundation was too strong. He had a family who loved him. And now, a purpose. Bianca needed him, and he’d risen to the challenge without a second thought. Because he was a man who could love without restraint or worry.

She pressed her hands to the edge of the worktable, breathing hard, her socks soaked, her sweater covered in dirt. Her chest felt hollow. Her throat raw. She just stood there, surrounded by torn roots and wrecked plants, andself-hatred. Tears came. Gusts of sobs that brought her to her knees.

Until she heard the screech of the fire alarm sounding from the house.

The cinnamon rolls.

Socks soaked,sweater clinging to her skin, she raced through the snow and up the porch steps, flinging the French doors open with shaking hands.

The sound nearly knocked her backward.

The fire alarm screamed from the ceiling—a relentless, high-pitched shriek that stabbed through her skull. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she stumbled inside, shutting the door behind her. Even in her distressed state, she thought of Fig. If he were to get out, he would perish too. She couldn’t lose him too.

Smoke billowed from the oven vent and clouded the room. And poor Fig. He crouched low to the floor, ears flattened, tail puffed to twice its size, eyes wide with terror. He let out a panicked, warbling yowl.

“I’m here.” Coughing, she dropped to her knees and reached for him, but he ran from her.

She rose to her feet and crossed to the oven, yanking open the door. A cloud of black smoke exploded into her face, followed by blistering heat. She grabbed a towel lying on the counter and reached in to pull out the tray of now-blackened rolls. But the towel slipped, and the top of her hand hit a coil. She hissed as pain seared through her tender skin.

Regardless, she had to get the tray out. Frantic, she found an oven mitt, reached in, and yanked it out, then dropped it into the sink with a crash. She turned the coldwater on it, watching the charred buns destroyed by water, then stuck her burned hand under the cold stream until her hand was numb from the cold. Tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision. She struggled to breathe. And the blasted sound would not stop, screeching and screeching and screeching.

She pushed open several windows, her hand throbbing. The pain was a punishment. For hurting a little girl and a kind, sensitive man.

She must get the alarm to stop. Or else she would be driven to the brink of insanity. Maybe she was already there. She dragged a stool over, climbed up onto it with trembling limbs, and yanked at the fire alarm with all her strength.

It wouldn’t come at first. She had to fight it. But she finally tore it from the ceiling, nearly dropping it as the last shriek died mid-screech. Silence. Deadly silence that pressed against her, made her dizzy with relief but also shame. Her knees buckling slightly as she climbed down from the stool. The kitchen remained smoky, the air sharp and thick in her lungs.

Fig darted under the table, eyes peeking out, still puffed and wary, but better.

Charlie stood in the middle of her kitchen in soaked socks, her sweater streaked with dirt and ash, her hand throbbing, the cinnamon rolls ruined, the house scorched with her carelessness.

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