Page 12 of Christmas with the Firefighter
"There's breakfast downstairs."
She hesitates.
"I don't want to keep you," she says finally. "I'm sure you have places to be."
The gentle politeness in her voice makes my chest ache. "You're not keeping me from anything."
That's not entirely true. I'm supposed to be at the station by eight for shift change, but suddenly that feels less important than making sure she doesn't drive away thinking last night meant nothing to me.
Because it did mean something. It meant everything. And that's exactly the problem.
"Okay," she says softly. "Breakfast sounds nice."
We walk to the door together, and when I reach for the handle, our hands brush. The contact sends electricity up my arm, and I see her react to it too with a sharp intake of breath, a flicker of heat in her eyes that reminds me exactly why I need to be careful.
"Miranda," I start, then stop, because I don't know how to say what I'm feeling without revealing too much.
"What?"
Instead of trying to find words, I lean down and kiss her. It's meant to be soft, a gentle goodbye, but the moment our lips touch, something ignites. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat and rises on her toes to meet me, and suddenly we're pressed against the door, kissing like we're trying to memorize each other.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard, and the distance I've been trying to maintain crumbles completely.
"That's not—" she starts, then stops, shaking her head.
"What?"
"That's not making this easier."
She's right. It's not. But I can't seem to stop myself from reaching for her, from wanting more time, more conversations, more mornings like this.
"Just breakfast," I say, forcing my voice to stay level. "Then we'll figure out the rest."
She nods, but I can see the fear creeping back into her expression, the way she's already protecting herself from whatever she thinks is coming.
We leave the room together, walking down the hallway in charged silence. I want to reach for her hand, want to pull her close, want to find a way to bridge this gap that keeps opening between us.
But every instinct I have is screaming at me to maintain some composure, to not let her see how much this matters to me.
The inn is quiet this early, most guests still sleeping off Christmas Eve celebrations. Our footsteps are soft on the vintage carpet, and I find myself hyperaware of every small sound like the way her breathing has settled into a steady rhythm, the soft rustle of her jeans as she walks, and the space she maintains between us like an invisible barrier.
At the top of the main staircase, she pauses, one hand on the bannister, looking down at the lobby where we sat together just hours ago.
We reach the bottom of the stairs, and I can hear the quiet clatter of breakfast preparation coming from the dining area.
The dining room is warm and welcoming, with morning light streaming through tall windows and the smell of coffee andbacon in the air. The waitress appears almost immediately, beaming at us with the knowing smile of someone who's been running a romantic inn for thirty years.
"Well, good morning, you two," she says, and I feel heat creep up my neck at the implication in her voice. "Corey, I wasn't expecting to see you this morning."
"Morning." I keep my voice professional, like I'm here on official business instead of trying to spend a few more minutes with the woman who's turned my world upside down. "Hope you don't mind me joining Miranda for breakfast."
"Of course not! Any friend of our guests is welcome." She turns to Miranda with a conspirative wink. "I trust you slept well, dear?"
Miranda's cheeks go pink, but she smiles. "Very well, thank you."
"Wonderful. Now, what can I get you both? Coffee to start?"
We settle at a small table by the window, and she brings us steaming mugs and fresh cream.
