“Jasper,” she says.
“Mmm?” I know I should get up, know I should deal with that bed, convince her to get in there alone. But it feels so good here, quiet words between us and soft cushions beneath our bodies. So close to my fantasy that I wonder if I’m already dreaming.
“How come you don’t go home? For the holidays, I mean?”
I resist the urge to shift, to move away from her, though my eyes blink open, and I stare up at the still ceiling fan above us. I clear my throat. “I’m not welcome there.”
I feel her head tip to look at me, but I keep my eyes on the ceiling. I think she’ll ask me why, but she chooses a different tack, a smarter one—one that’s more likely to keep me talking. “What’d you used to do, then? When you were welcome?”
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes again. It’s been so long since I’ve been there for a Christmas, almost seventeen years. “Mostly we celebrated Christmas Eve.” Too many chores to do in the mornings, no matter what day it was. “My dad’s brothers and their families would come out to the ranch. All fifteen of my cousins.”
“Wow,” Kris says. “Must’ve been fun.”
My lips tug into a smile, in spite of myself. “Could be, yeah. We made a lot of trouble.” No running in the house, no snacks before dinner, no shaking the packages, no going out to the stables. Every rule, we broke, and almost always I’d be the ringleader. Because back then, that’s what I was used to being.
“We’d have a big barbecue dinner, and pineapple cake my aunt Sarah used to make. Then church.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It was,” I admit.
“Do you miss it?”
I don’t let myself miss it, I think. I only ever let myself miss you.
“No.”
We’re quiet again for long minutes, and I wonder if Kristen’s dozed off, if maybe I’m dozing a little too, feeling the time stretch unusually with fatigue, pleasure in her body next to mine.
“What are we going to do about the job?” she whispers finally, and her voice sounds so worried. The job. This one with the Dreyers, the firm in general. The job has always been between us, but for once I don’t want the reminder. This night—the close of a long day at work, ending with quiet talk about our families—it feels simple, natural. Natural in a way that makes me think about the other layers Kris and I could have between us, if only I could stop being so afraid of what would happen if it went wrong.
So this time, I do the unexpected thing. I move my hand from where it rests on my thigh and reach for hers, linking our fingers together. I hear her breath catch slightly, but before I can wonder if I’ve made a mistake, she squeezes my hand slightly, her cool palm pressing against mine.
“We’ll worry about it tomorrow.” I squeeze back.
I fall asleep thinking about Christmases—past, present, future.
Chapter Eight
KRISTEN
December 23
I wake up alone.
I’m curled on the love seat, a pillow tucked under my head and a blanket from the pile Jasper brought in last night draped over me. I sit up quickly, looking toward the bed, knowing already I’ll find it unmade—if Jasper had woken up in the night, he would’ve made it. And he would’ve insisted that, at the very least, I get in.
So we must’ve . . . slept together?
I rub a hand over my eyes, my hair. I’m not surprised that I was dead to the world last night—Kelly and I shared a room until she left for college, and she could literally spend an entire night loudly making playlists on her computer without me waking up—but I am surprised I was comfortable enough to fall asleep in my clothes, my makeup. I probably look like the Crypt Keeper, but I can’t summon the energy to care.
I know already that I’m not getting to Michigan today. I grew up on the west side of the Upper Peninsula, which means I know snow. I know the sound of its silence outside, the muffled quality to the air, even when you’re inside. I know the way the light changes, whether it’s gray—like it is now—or sunny. I even know the smell of it when it’s freshly fallen.
So I know it’s snowed more while I was sleeping.
I grab my phone from the coffee table, see Jasper’s watch and phone there, pause briefly to listen for him moving around in the bathroom. But—nothing. He’s brought our bags in; they sit right by the cottage’s front door, so he must be dressed and at the Dreyers’, probably using the extra time to work on Gil. I’d be mad, him on the job without me, but I can’t help thinking about the way he spoke last night, the way he talked about his family’s Christmases past. The way we’d sunk into each other, talking quietly, Jasper saying things he’s never said before. I didn’t even know he’d grown up on a ranch. Maybe he’s escaping a bit, working on the job, reestablishing some boundaries, and I certainly can understand that.
Even if I do still feel that holiday bell in my heart.
I stand and walk over to my bag, my body stiff with sleep, and take a quick glance at my phone. The screen is stacked with texts, nearly all of them from the airline: DELAY, DELAY, DELAY, CANCELLATION.
But the most recent one is from Kelly, a single line.
Your Jasper is lovely.
I stare down at it, my brows crinkling in confusion. Kelly met Jasper a couple of times when she’s been in Houston for
