UnLucky Stars

The UnLucky Heated Christmas

The drive back to the guesthouse was filled with a thick, expectant tension that seemed to vibrate in the small space of the SUV. The moment the door to the stone cottage clicked shut behind them, the polite pretenses of the evening vanished.

​The room was bathed in the low, dying amber of the hearth fire. Rowan didn't wait. He backed Elara against the heavy oak door, his hands tangling in her hair as his mouth found hers with a hunger that spoke of hours of restrained desire. The charcoal wool of his new coat was cold against her skin, but his body was a furnace. Elara’s hands scrambled for the buttons of his flannel shirt, her breath hitching when her palms finally met the hard, muscled expanse of his chest.

​He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist, as he carried her toward the bed. Every touch was an exploration, a frantic mapping of skin and heat. The sheets were cool, but they didn't stay that way for long. In the shadows of the room, their bodies became a single silhouette of moving limbs and whispered gasps. Rowan moved with the same precision he applied to his architecture, slow and deliberate, before giving in to the raw, unbridled pace of the moment. It was primal and deep, a connection that made the "fake" boyfriend lie feel like a distant, irrelevant memory.

​The next morning, the room was filled with a pale, winter light that shimmered off the frost on the windows. Elara stirred, the warmth of the duvet wrapping around her like a cocoon. She opened her eyes to find the space beside her empty, the sheets still smelling of him.

​"Rowan?" she murmured, sitting up.

​She heard a floorboard creak. She looked toward the bedroom doorway and caught her breath.

​Rowan stood there, completely naked, his silhouette framed by the morning light. He looked like a statue carved from granite, his broad shoulders and lean, athletic frame unapologetically on display. But it was what he was holding that made her eyes widen. He held a large, striking bouquet of black roses, the velvet petals so dark they looked like shadows. He held them low, strategically covering his manhood, his blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity that was both playful and profoundly serious.

​"Black roses?" Elara whispered, a smile tugging at her lips. "Where on earth did you find those in Maple Creek?"

​"I have my ways," Rowan said, his voice a low, morning rumble. "I knew you were different, Elara. You don't strike me as a red-rose kind of girl. You’re the girl who looks for the light in the cracks. I thought these suited you better."

​Elara reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she took the bouquet from him. "Thank you. They're... they're beautiful."

​As the weight of the flowers left his hands, the bouquet no longer served as a shield. The movement revealed him fully, his manhood already stirred and hard, a testament to the fact that his desire for her hadn't been sated by the night before.

​Elara felt a jolt of heat race through her. She set the flowers on the nightstand and reached for him, pulling him back into the tangle of sheets. The second round was slower, a languid and deep re-connection that mirrored the steady snowfall outside the window.

​Later, as they finally emerged from the bed, the room cold but their skin still flushed, Rowan paused. He sat on the edge of the mattress, watching her as she pulled on one of his discarded flannel shirts.

​"Elara," he said, his tone shifting to something more grounded. "I need to ask you something."

​She stopped, her hand frozen on the buttons. "Yeah?"

​"Last night, after Chloe's big reveal... you looked genuinely shocked. You really had no idea about the firm or the money, did you?"

​"None," she admitted, walking over to stand between his knees. "I thought you were a successful guy, sure. But I didn't know you were that guy. Why?"

​Rowan reached out, his hands resting on her hips. "Because for years, every person I’ve met has seen the bank account before they saw the man. They liked the view from the top floor, but they didn't care about the foundation. You liked me when you thought I was a guy with no luggage and a mended suitcase. You liked me when I was just the guy who hijacked your flight."

​He looked up at her, his expression raw. "I haven't felt like this in a very long time. I know we started this 'boyfriend' thing as a lie to get Mark off your back... but I don't want to lie anymore. I want to know if you really want to be my girlfriend. For real. No more scripts."

​Elara looked down at him, realizing that the "unlucky" girl was standing in a room with a man who had everything, yet was asking her for the only thing money couldn't buy.

​"Rowan," she whispered, her fingers trailing over his jaw. "I don't care about the skyscrapers. I care about the man who bought black roses and mended my handle. Yes. For real."