Page 106 of The Winter Princess

Then his gaze shifts over my bare legs and he grips the counter, turning his head to smile at the open shelves of crockery, at a houseplant in the window, at the refrigerator. He’s self-conscious of the smile and of the way he can’t seem to get rid of it. He nods several times—again at the crockery and houseplant—and bites his lip, an attempt to draw himself back into line.

No regret.

He sets a timer. “Like the view?” he prompts, his smile barely behaving.

I laugh, now unable to meet his eyes.

He opens his arms, and I walk into them, burrowing into his warmth, and wrap myself around him. His hands stroke my back, following the path of the long trailing scar.

He kisses the top of my head.

I press a kiss into his neck, the chain under my lips.

I look up and, as his mouth settles on mine, I’m dimly aware of the French press—of flyaway facts about how the coffee will be weak and sour if the steep time is too short, bitter if left too long. We wouldn’t want weak coffee, I think, plowing my hand through his hair and working my way further into his arms.

Tick, tick, tickgoes a timer, innocently counting off moments while my stomach coils tightly and the blush on my cheeks becomes a flush.

Ding.

It’s a friendly sound, at odds with my overheated nerves. We draw back and I’m fighting to breathe properly. He’s fighting too.

“Sit,” he says, scooting me to the table. With great reluctance, I perch on a kitchen chair, watching him. He presses the coffee and pours out two mugs, setting them next to a tray of pastries.

I sniff appreciatively as he angles into the chair opposite me. “All this and a hot Danish, too?”

He leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. I used to think he was an unassailable monolith, reserving tender feelings for dead painters and good varnish. But now that I’ve assailed him, I know better.

He drinks from his cup and swallows. “The first rule ofHuisVelasquez: Keep Freja fed.”

I like that.HuisVelasquez. A Sondish word nestled against a Pavian name.

He looks at me, and his brows settle into goblin lines. He puts down his coffee with a grunt.

“What?” I ask, licking a crumb from the side of my lips.

He reaches his arm across the table and pulls me into his lap. Once upon a time I couldn’t imagine him wearing anything but a waistcoat and tie–couldn’t imagine his body relaxing around mine. He laces his fingers and rests them lightly on my hip, a thumb tracing the curve.

“Better?” I ask.

“Mm,” he grunts, taking another swallow of coffee, setting the mug down, and holding me tightly. Already I have learned to interpret the unspoken communication of his breathing and his hands.

“I’m not going to stop eating,” I warn.

“Heaven forbid.” The words come with a smile, but he continues to hold me as I finish my breakfast, chin resting on my shoulder. Eventually, our breathing syncs up, a gentle and easy counterpoint to the howling wind.

My eyes drift to the window. The blizzard is a blessing. There won’t be a soul in the streets today, giving us time to ourselves before a storm of another sort breaks.

I gather the air and breathe deeply. His hands tighten, comforting. He’s learning me, too.

Absolute chaos has been left in our wake, but our worries can wait until tomorrow. Today belongs to us. I dust off my fingertips and wrap my arms around his neck, tracing the rim of his ear and liking the change I feel in the rhythm of his heart.

“I’m ready to be kissed.”

He tips his head, saying against my lips, “Merry Christmas, wife.”

36

Epilogue