Page 16 of An Unexpected Christmas
“Perfect timing,” he mutters, his voice low.
I laugh softly, the moment broken. Probably for the best.
He steps back, his silhouette just visible. “We should find candles.”
“Right,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Candles. Good idea.”
As he turns to search the cupboards, I press my hand to my chest, trying to calm the rapid beat of my heart.
Sam
Give me a chance to win something tonight
The darkness swallows the tension in the room; the only sound is the wind rattling the windows and my rapidly thumping heart. My hand brushes against the countertop, still dusted with flour and cocoa, as I reach for the drawer where I vaguely remember keeping a few tealights and a lighter.
Frankie’s voice cuts through the silence, soft and teasing, despite the blackout and the almost… whatever that was. “So, is this when you confess you don’t own any candles because they’re too ‘festive’?”
I glance over my shoulder, the faint light from the window catching the curve of her cheek. “I own candles,” I say, opening the drawer and taking some out. “I just don’t have any festive scents you’d probably approve of.”
She chuckles, stepping closer. The nudge of her shoulder against mine sends a jolt through me, a reminder of just how close we’d been moments ago. Too close.
I flick the lighter, and the small flame springs to life, flickering as I touch it to the wick of the first candle. Warm light fillsthe space, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. It feels... intimate. Too intimate. More intimate than when I almost kissed her a minute ago. My chest tightens as I light another, the memory still fresh in my mind.
What the hell was I thinking? Did I take it too far?
It’s been four years. Four years since Lucy cheated on me. I fully withdrew from any and all relationships after that. Six months since I moved here to escape the ghost of my past that lingered in every corner of our old life in England. And now, in this small space, with Frankie standing close enough to touch, there’s something here I haven’t felt in years: the pull of connection. And I’m scared.
I push the thought away, handing her a candle. “Here.”
She smiles, taking it without comment, and placing it down. The dim light softens everything: the chaos of the flour-covered kitchen, the beautiful woman in my kitchen also dusted with the same flour. I focus on the simple task, trying to steady my wayward thoughts.
“Do you want to clean up?” I say, breaking the silence. “The bathroom is upstairs to the left, or there’s one back there.”
“Is this your first blackout here?”
I nod. “Why?”
“Our water system runs on a well system, no power, no water. I have reserve bottles of water at my place. I can get you one.”
“I had no idea,” I say, rubbing my chin. “Does it take long to come back on?”
“Depends on the storm. Lots of folk around here have supplies though. Some houses have a generator, too.”
I look back to the kitchen and the fridge. “How would I know if this house has one?” Just as the words leave my mouth, a kick sound happens somewhere out back, followed by a machinery hum. The fridge seems to come back to life, and the emergency lights above the front door.
Frankie gestures to the kitchen. “There you go. You have a generator. I have one too.”
I watch her and try to think of what to say that isn’t something along the lines of ‘did you want me to kiss you? I’m not sure this is a good idea but I don’t want you to go either.’
“I guess I should probably…” she starts, gesturing to the door. “Check on my generator too.”
Panic strikes me square in my solar plexus, and I move toward her as soon as she steps away. Why does the thought of her leaving make me feel a little off balance? “You don’t have to go,” I blurt. Her brows lift slightly, surprise flickering across her face at the urgency in my voice. Meanwhile, my subconscious is screaming, ‘what the hell are you doing?’
“I mean…” I clear my throat, searching for composure. “My generator works, chances are yours does too. The roads are still a mess. And it’s late. It’d be safer if you stayed a little longer.”
She studies me, head tilted, curls bouncing around her cheekbones. “Safer… to walk across the street?” Her voice rises atthe end, as though she sees right through my pathetic excuse to keep her here.
I want to take it back, rephrase it, but the truth is I don’t want her to leave. Not yet. “There’s at least a foot out there, and you’re pretty short.”
