Page 32 of Her Holiday Arrangement
But her hand stayed exactly where it was.
And her lie suddenly felt like the most honest thing she’d ever said.
The fire had burned low, glowing embers pulsing with gentle heat. Most of the family had retired for the night, leaving behind the faint scent of pine, brandy, and expensive perfume. The great room had gone quiet except for the occasional crackle from the hearth and the soft clink of mugs on coasters.
Elizabeth sat curled at one end of the oversized couch, legs crossed, half a blanket draped across her lap. Her mug of hot chocolate, generously spiked with brandy, rested in one hand, the steam curling around her face. She should’ve gone upstairs. She should’ve made some polite excuse and vanished behind the safety of her bedroom door.
But Riley was still here.
And Elizabeth didn’t want to leave her.
Riley was sprawled out comfortably, back against a pillow, her legs stretched across the couch, her socked feet resting, almost carelessly, in Elizabeth’s lap. A blanket covered them both. Her curls were pulled into a loose bun that had mostly fallen out, and she held her mug in both hands like it was the only source of heat she trusted.
She looked tired, but in a warm, glowing kind of way. Happy. Settled.
Like she belonged.
Elizabeth’s fingers moved almost of their own accord, her palm resting lightly on Riley’s ankle, thumb tracing small circles against the soft fabric of her socks.
It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even conscious. Just a small, intimate motion, absentminded. A comfort.
But it might as well have been a confession.
Riley didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look down. Just leaned her head back on the armrest, eyes half-lidded as she sipped her drink and let out a low, contented sigh.
Elizabeth’s heart raced, a slow, deep thrum beneath her ribs.This is dangerous.
She knew it. Every breath of it. The firelight. The warmth. The trust. Riley’s feet in her lap, her easy laughter from earlier, the way she’d hung ornaments like it mattered.
This was a game. A business transaction. A short-term arrangement.
Elizabeth told herself, again, like a mantra:It’s just for show. Just for the trip.
But the thought felt brittle now. Hollow.
Because this, whateverthiswas, felt better than anything she’d let herself want in years. And not because it was perfect. Not because Riley was poised or polished or came from the right background. She didn’t. God, she didn’t.
But she was real.
And Elizabeth couldn’t remember the last time something in her life had been allowed to be real.
Riley shifted slightly, just enough to nudge her toes deeper under the blanket. She didn’t say a word, but the corner of her mouth lifted, barely.
Elizabeth swallowed hard. Didn’t move her hand.
Didn’t dare.
Because she was starting to want things. And that, more than anything, was terrifying.
6
December 18th– Riley
Riley stared at the ceiling like it had personally wronged her.
She had counted every knot in the wooden beams twice. Listened to the wind gust past the window. Watched the fairy lights strung outside cast shifting, frosted shadows across the snow-covered porch. She had even tried one of those mindfulness techniques, inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for eight, but all it did was make her feel like she was hyperventilating into the silence of a billionaire’s guest bedroom.
She was not okay.
