Page 14 of Love in a Christmas Storm
“Snow melts. A kiss can stay with you all year.”
She turned her face toward the fire, but Carlos caught the way her lips twitched at the edges. Not quite a smile. But close. Close enough to count.
Carlos shifted on the bearskin rug until his shoulder brushed lightly against hers. He leaned a little nearer. “All right. Your turn.”
“Would you rather get the perfect gift or give it?”
“Give it. Every time. There’s this moment—right before someone opens it—where you know it’s going to land. Like, really land. That joy? Feels like flying.”
Lettie looked over at him, and for a heartbeat he saw something unguarded in her eyes. Then she blinked, and it was gone.
He nudged her knee with his. “One more. Would you rather have one magical day… or a lifetime of almost-magic?”
“That’s a messed-up question.”
“I know.”
Lettie stared into the fire again, expression unreadable. “Almost-magic,” she said at last. “I think I’d rather believe it could still get better than know it peaked already.”
Carlos let that sink in. The honesty of it. The ache in it. “Yeah. Me too.”
The cabin had quieted around them, the storm outside muting everything to a hush. The only sound was the soft pop of firewood and the hum of their shared breath.
“What do you do,” Lettie asked after a long pause, “when no one’s watching?”
Carlos glanced sideways, caught off guard. Unlike her, he had no problem being vulnerable. “I talk to my Christmas tree.”
Her brows lifted. “You talk to it?”
“Every year I give it a name. Bertrand was last year. He had good posture. This year’s is Rita. She leans, but she tries.”
Lettie snorted. “You’re insane.”
“I’m festive,” Carlos corrected with a grin. “Come on. Your turn.”
She hesitated. Long enough he thought she might deflect entirely. But then, almost under her breath, she said, “I write poetry.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just absorbed it.
“You ever share it?”
She shook her head. “Not ever. It doesn’t rhyme. Too many metaphors. Too honest.”
“I’d read it,” he said.
“I know.” She looked at him. “That’s the problem.”
His heart kicked, low and deep. What did that mean? That she thought he'd get her metaphors, her honesty?
“What would your perfect Christmas look like?” she asked then, eyes still on him.
“Cocoa that doesn’t come from a machine. A snowball fight that ends in laughter, not bruises. The whole town lit up like a postcard. A table full of people who chose each other, not just the ones they were born with. Music. Cracked jokes. Second helpings. Grace.”
Lettie was quiet for a while. Then: “I used to have the answer to that question. Now…” She wrapped her fingers around her mug like it was the only thing tethering her. “Maybe the answer is that I want quiet. Maybe I want to not have to try so hard. Maybe I want something… peaceful. Meaningful.”
Carlos nodded. “I’d call that perfect, too.”
A minute passed. Two. The fire dimmed and deepened. Lettie curled slightly toward him, the space between them growing narrower with each breath.
