Page 20 of Christmas with the Firefighter
"Your place, huh?" she says as the doors close behind us.
"If you want. No pressure. We can take it slow, figure things out—"
She cuts me off with a kiss that makes my knees weak and my brain stop working entirely. When she pulls back, her eyes are dark with promise.
"Corey?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm done taking it slow."
The elevator dings at the fourth floor, and we stumble out together, hands already reaching for each other. Her room is at the end of the hall, and we barely make it inside before I'm pressing her against the closed door, kissing her like she might disappear if I stop.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask against her mouth, even as my hands slide up her sides, reacquainting themselves with the soft curves I've been thinking about all morning.
"I'm sure about you," she says, and that's all I need to hear.
The door clicks shut behind us, and we're finally, completely alone.
Epilogue – Miranda
Two Years Later
I'm curled up in the oversized armchair by our fireplace, laptop balanced on my knees, finishing the final quarterly assessment for my biggest client when I hear the familiar sound of Corey muttering creative curse words at the kitchen.
"You're supposed to stir it gently," I call out, not looking up from the spreadsheet I'm reviewing. "Like you're coaxing it, not threatening it into submission."
"I am being gentle," comes his voice from around the corner, followed by the distinct sound of a wooden spoon being aggressively wielded against the sides of a saucepan.
"That's not gentle. That's what you do to suspects who won't cooperate."
A pause. Then: "How do you know what I do to suspects?"
"Lucky guess." I save the document and close my laptop, stretching muscles that have been hunched over financial projections for the better part of three hours. "Need backup in there?"
"I've got it under control, thank you very much. I'll have you know I've successfully made hot cocoa seventeen times without incident since we moved in together."
"I'm keeping count too, and it's actually fourteen times. Three of those involved minor disasters that we agreed not to discuss."
"Details."
I grin and tuck my feet under me. Through the window, snow falls in the same gentle, persistent way it did that first night atthe Snowcap Inn, fat flakes that catch the porch light and make the whole world look soft and forgiving.
This house fits us in ways I never expected a place could. It's not fancy—two bedrooms, one and a half baths, hardwood floors that creak in all the right places, and a kitchen that's seen better decades. But it's ours in a way that hotel rooms never were, never could be.
Every room holds memories now: the living room where we spent our first Christmas morning together, the kitchen where Corey taught me to make his grandmother's sugar cookies without burning them, the bedroom where we learned each other's rhythms and settled into the quiet intimacy of shared space.
My consulting work has evolved too. Instead of traveling constantly, taking any client who could pay my rates, I've become more selective. I work with three major companies now, all remotely, all relationships I've built over years of proving that I can deliver results from anywhere. The irony isn't lost on me, it took finding a place I wanted to stay to realize I could work from home all along.
"Crisis averted," Corey announces, appearing in the doorway with two steaming mugs topped with whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon. "No fire department required."
"Look at you, being all domestic and competent."
"I have my moments." He settles onto the couch next to my chair, close enough that I can smell the lingering scent of winter air on his sweater. He must have just gotten home from his shift. "How was the review?"
"Finished. Finally. Their third-quarter numbers were a disaster, but I think I've found a way to restructure their supply chain that'll save them about twelve percent on operational costs."
"My brilliant girlfriend, solving corporate America's problems one spreadsheet at a time."
