Page 42 of Her Holiday Arrangement

She hadn’t slept with someone like that in years. Not even with Sophia. Certainly not with anyone since. The ease of it, the closeness, it chipped away at the armor she’d built so carefully.

And Riley…

Riley was messy and stubborn and too honest for her own good. She was chaos wrapped in warmth, someone who made the staff laugh and made Elizabethfeel.

She didn’t know how to handle someone like that.

Didn’t know how to want it.

Didn’t know hownotto.

A sound behind her, Riley shifting again, pulling the duvet higher, murmuring something in her sleep, and Elizabeth’s fingers curled into fists against the window frame.

She couldn’t let this continue.

She wouldn’t survive it.

Emotions had never served her well. They made people weak. Reckless. Vulnerable. And Elizabeth had built her entire life, her entireidentity, on being untouchable.

But this morning? She didn’t feel untouchable.

She feltseen.

And that was far more dangerous.

She let her forehead rest against the cold glass, closing her eyes. For a few stolen seconds, she allowed herself to feel it. The ache. The tenderness. The terrifying swell of affection.

And then, like always, she buried it.

Tightened her grip on control.

Put the mask back on.

When she finally turned back toward the bed, Riley was still sleeping, peaceful, unaware, beautiful in a way that made Elizabeth’s chest hurt all over again.

But her expression was calm now. Smoothed into neutrality. She was composed. Distant. Ready.

Because she would not let herself fall.

Not for someone who wasn’t supposed to be permanent.

Not for someone who could leave.

By the time the sun had fully risen, Elizabeth Hale was already dressed. Hair smoothed to perfection, black turtleneck tuckedinto tailored cream slacks, diamond studs in her ears, simple, polished, untouchable.

She moved through the upstairs hallway with quiet efficiency, her heels silent on the polished hardwood floors. Downstairs, the smell of gingerbread pancakes and cloves wafted up from the kitchen, warm and homey. She ignored it.

She had reassembled herself with surgical precision. The version of Elizabeth that entered the kitchen ten minutes later was pristine. Controlled. The consummate hostess and daughter. A sharp, elegant contrast to the mess of emotions still burning beneath her skin.

The great kitchen buzzed with festive cheer. Staff moved gracefully between the island and stove, carrying platters of candied bacon and cinnamon rolls. Her mother stood near the espresso machine in a red cashmere sweater, directing everything like a general at war.

“Elizabeth, darling,” she said, barely glancing up, “do make sure the cranberry compote is set out before it congeals.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth replied coolly, already halfway to the counter.

She could play this part with her eyes closed.

Shehadplayed this part with her eyes closed, for decades.