Page 16 of Love in a Christmas Storm
Lettie felt it before he said a word. The instant the spell shattered. He pulled away with glacier-slow caution, like any faster would burn them both. The air that filled the space he left behind was colder than it had any right to be.
“I…sorry,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and apology.
Lettie didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. She stared into the dying embers of the fire and listened to the emptiness ringing in her ribcage.
There it was again. There was that hollow tug she’d felt the first Christmas after her parents moved to Florida and forgot to send stockings. There was that same tight ache that came with being the one left behind.
She hadn’t asked Carlos to hold her. Hadn’t expected him to stay. But part of her—traitorous and tired—had wanted him to.
And now he was gone, even though he was still in the room. Still within reach behind her. She wanted to reach back, pull him close again, make some stupid joke about mistletoe, proximity clauses, or journalistic objectivity. She wanted to chase the warmth.
But she didn’t.
Because this wasn’t about her. It never was. Her parents were happy, suntanned and oblivious in their retirement enclave. The magazine was thriving under a stranger’s name. Carlos had his cocoa and Christmas tree and a town full of believers. Everyone had moved on.
So why was she still here, holding on?
Lettie rolled onto her back, careful not to look at him. Her hands found the blanket, pulling it higher like armor.
“Morning,” she said, voice neutral, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
If he heard the break in it, he didn’t say. If she felt the loss of him like a ghost in her bones, well… that was her own fault. Hope was for people who didn’t know better. She had a job to do. And that job was to expose the people ruining Christmas in this town.
“You can stay here tonight,” she said, voice steady.
“Are you sure?” He looked so surprised. So bright. Like someone had handed him a gift he hadn’t dared ask for.
“It’s yours. The cabin, I mean. I won’t be here. I'll be gone.”
His face didn’t fall all at once. It shifted in small, quiet ways. The crinkle at the corner of his eyes eased. His mouth pressed into a line. His shoulders settled back into something guarded.
“Oh,” he said, just that.
Lettie tightened the blanket around her. “I have everything I need for the article,” she said, aiming for crisp and clear, but it came out thin. Brittle. “There’s nothing else to stay for.”
Not entirely true. Not at all true.
She could still taste the warmth of last night in her bones. Still feel the ghost of his arm over her waist. But if she left first—before anything else could happen, before he could pull away again—then maybe she could protect what little was left of her heart.
Carlos nodded once, politely. Almost too polite. Like last night by the fire had never happened. Like the softness had been hers alone.
She stood and crossed the room to gather her things, determined not to look back. Not at the dying fire. Not at the rug. Not at him.
Because if she did, she might change her mind. And she couldn’t afford to do that. She’d always known how this story ended. So this time, she was going to write the last line herself.
“Lettie, wait.”
She was two steps from the door. One breath away from safety. She didn’t turn around.
“I know you said you’re leaving,” Carlos said, his voice quiet, steady—but not resigned. “And maybe I’m reading it all wrong. But last night… this morning… it felt like something.”
His words stretched across the space between them, warm and hopeful.
“I’m not trying to make it more than it was. I just… I need to know if I’m the only one who felt it. Like maybe… maybe we could be something.”
The words landed like a wish on the air. A foolish, beautiful thing.
Lettie’s hand clenched around the strap of her bag. She wanted to say yes. Of course, she felt it. Of course, there was something. But want was never the same as safe.
