Snowbound Christmas Wish

Chapter Six – Headlines

Emma woke to warmth.

For a second she thought she was back in Berlin, under her own heavy duvet, safe inside a familiar life. Then the smell of pine and old wood, the weight under her cheek and the steady heartbeat in her ear reminded her exactly where she was.

And who she was on.

Liam lay on his back, one arm under the pillow, the other wrapped firmly around her waist. Her bare stomach was pressed to his side, her thigh thrown over his, their legs tangled in a knot of sheets and blanket. Their skin stuck where the heat from the night still lingered.

The world outside was muffled. Just wind testing the window, muted sounds from the kitchen downstairs, the distant clink of dishes.

She closed her eyes again and listened to his heartbeat.

Slow. Steady. A little too loud where her ear rested against his chest.

Last night came back in flashes, like light through falling snow.

The council meeting. His refusal. Clara’s cold smile. Her hands shaking over the keyboard as she wrote, knowing every sentence might cost him something. The way he had come up behind her at the desk, kissed the top of her head and told her to send the version she could live with.

And later, after the email had gone, when silence became another kind of pressure, how one look between them had been enough.

He had reached for her first, fingers curling in the fabric of her shirt to pull her up from the chair and against him. His mouth had found hers with something fierce and grateful in it, like he had been holding himself back for days and finally stopped.

Her back had hit the wall beside the bed with a soft thud. He had kissed her until her knees went weak, until she was clutching at his sweater just to stay upright.

At some point she had pushed the sweater up, hands flattening against the hard muscle of his stomach, his ribs, his chest. Under her fingers he was all heat and tension. His breath had hitched when she traced the faint line of his scar with her thumb before dragging the sweater over his head.

He had laughed once, low and disbelieving, when she tugged him down onto the bed and followed, straddling his hips through the thin cotton of her borrowed shirt. That laugh had turned into a soft, rough sound when she rocked against him.

They had tried to be slow. They failed.

The inn’s shirt had ridden up; his hands had slid under it, palms spanning the curve of her waist, thumbs pressing into sensitive skin. Every touch had left a trail of electricity. When he rolled with her, covering her with his weight, she had wrapped her legs around him without thinking, pulling him closer, closer, until nothing between them felt accidental.

At some blurry, breathless point the light had gone off, the covers had come up, and the important details had turned into heat and rhythm and the feel of his hands holding her like she was something he had been afraid to touch for too long.

Now, in the grey soft light of morning, everything was quieter.

More dangerous in a different way.

“Stop thinking,” Liam murmured, voice low and sleep-rough against her hair.

She jumped slightly. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was,” he said. “Then the part of my brain that is obsessed with you woke up and refused to shut up.”

She smiled against his chest. “That part needs better hobbies.”

His hand on her waist shifted, sliding slowly along the small of her back, fingers gliding over bare skin in lazy, absent circles that made it very hard to breathe normally.

“It is very committed,” he said. “What are you thinking about?”

“Yesterday,” she said. “The council. The article. Everything that could still go wrong.”

He hummed, a low vibration under her cheek.

“Good,” he said. “For a second I was worried you were regretting other parts of last night.”

She lifted her head.

His hair was a mess from the pillow, sticking up in soft angles. His eyes were heavy with sleep, but his mouth curved in a cautious half smile. The sheet sat low on his hips, the rest of him unapologetically on display.

Her gaze dipped once, traitorous, before she dragged it back to his face.

“I am not regretting those parts,” she said.

“Any of them?” he asked.

She thought about the way he had slowed just once, searching her face in the dark, giving her that last, silent chance to stop. About how she had cupped his jaw and said “don’t” and meant it in a way that scared her more than anything else this year.

“Not one,” she said.

The tension in his shoulders eased. His smile warmed, softened.

“Good,” he said. “Because if you were, I would have to rebuild my ego from scratch. And I am very tired.”

He reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers trailing down the side of her neck, along her collarbone, lingering there in a way that was definitely not accidental.

“I like you here,” he said quietly.

“In your bed?” she teased, trying to swallow the sudden tightness in her throat.

“In my life,” he corrected.

Her chest squeezed.

She opened her mouth to answer, but her phone buzzed impatiently on the nightstand.

Reality.

Of course.

She groaned and stretched across him to grab it. Her bare chest brushed his ribs as she leaned, and his hand tightened reflexively on her hip.

“Cruel woman,” he muttered.

“Do not start,” she warned, cheeks heating.

Three new emails.

One from her mother. One from her editor. One with no subject line.

Her stomach tightened in three different directions.

“Which one is making your face do that?” Liam asked.

“Work,” she said. “And possibly disaster.”

She pushed herself up, dragging the blanket with her and crossing her legs so she could balance the phone. The movement peeled her skin away from his with a faint, warm pull. He rolled onto his side to face her, propping his head on his hand, the sheet slipping even lower.

She opened the editor’s email.

Emma,

This is not the angle I expected. It is also one of the best things you have ever sent me.

You were right to avoid a cartoon villain. Legal flagged a few paragraphs; I trimmed and added a line about “ongoing legal discussions” to keep us from being eaten alive.

We’re running it at noon. I hope your mountain has internet.

The personal tone works. Readers will feel you in it. That is good. Just remember there are lines. I left in the “too close to the subject” part because it’s honest, but I did not spell anything out. Keep it that way.

Merry Christmas. Try not to get sued.

She let out a long breath she did not realise she had been holding.

“Well?” Liam asked.

“She likes it,” Emma said slowly. “Legal cut a few things, but it is going live today.”

His fingers, still resting on her thigh under the blanket, flexed slightly, then relaxed.

“And the ‘too close’ part?” he asked.

“She kept it,” Emma said. “But she didn’t ask what it means.”

He smiled faintly. “Then we make sure she never has to see the full definition,” he said. “Some things stay ours.”

“Private is still private,” she agreed.

She opened the no-subject email.

Nice piece. You’re more dangerous than you look.

C.

“Clara,” she said.

“Already?” Liam asked.

“She probably has an alert set for your surname,” Emma muttered, deleting the email.

“Would not surprise me,” he said.

She opened her mother’s message last.

It was a photo of their living room in Berlin. The tree overloaded with ornaments. Lights on every surface. Her father halfway into the frame, caught mid-laugh. The caption read:

We miss you. Call us. Is the mountain fixing you?

Emma stared at it for a long few seconds.

“Do you feel fixed?” Liam asked softly.

She looked down at him.

He was watching her with that same steady focus he had turned on the forest, on the contract, on the choice he had made. Only now it was aimed at her.

“No,” she said honestly. “But I feel… less broken.”

His hand slid higher on her leg, fingers splaying over her hip, tugging gently until she toppled sideways and landed half on top of him with a small squeak.

“Come back here then,” he said. “If I am going to ruin your life, I would like you close while I do it.”

She laughed, breathless, and braced her hands on his chest.

“Your confidence is terrifying,” she said.

“It is mostly you,” he answered.

His thumb drew idle patterns on the bare strip of skin at her waist where the blanket had slipped. The contact was warm, possessive in a way that made something low in her abdomen tighten.

“We have a rule,” she said, trying for normal. “Honesty.”

“Yes,” he said, eyes darkening as they dropped to her mouth. “Honestly, I have been awake for ten minutes and I already want you again. That is probably unhealthy.”

He lifted his head to kiss her.

The angle pushed her further over him, her knee sliding between his thighs, the blanket tangling around their hips. His free hand moved to the small of her back and pressed, drawing her closer until there was no space left.

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. Heat flared through her. She made a small sound into his mouth that he swallowed with a low, answering groan.

“Liam,” she said when they eventually came up for air. It came out more like a plea than a warning.

He smiled against her lips.

“I like the way you say my name when you are pretending to protest,” he murmured.

His hand slipped under the blanket again, fingers spreading over the curve of her backside, guiding her hips in a slow, unconscious roll against him. The friction sent a sharp, hot line of awareness through her.

Her breath stuttered.

“We really do not have time for this,” she managed.

“Your article goes up in a few hours,” he said. “We are both about to get yelled at by several kinds of people. Trust me. We need this.”

She should have argued.

Instead she kissed him again.

This time there was no hesitation at all. She opened for him, hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders, around his neck. His tongue brushed hers, slow and sure, sending shivers through her. He rolled them, pinning her under him, bracing most of his weight on his arms as if he was afraid to crush her, even as his body was clearly not interested in restraint.

His mouth left hers only to trail along her jaw, down the column of her throat, finding the spot just below her ear that made her whole body arch when he sucked gently.

“Here,” he murmured against her skin. “This is mine.”

Her fingers dug into his shoulders.

“You cannot claim parts,” she said, voice shaky.

“Watch me,” he said.

His hand slipped under the edge of her shirt, palm sliding up, broad and warm, exploring familiar territory with new slow intent. Every inch he covered felt like it woke up. Her back arched into his touch, pressing her more fully against him.

“Liam,” she said again, but this time there was no warning left in it.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, breathing hard.

“You are sure?” he asked, even now, eyes searching hers for any flicker of doubt.

She nodded, reaching up to frame his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the faint line of the scar at his brow.

“I am tired of being careful with everything except this,” she said. “I want you. Stop asking.”

The noise he made at that was half laugh, half surrender.

“Bossy,” he said. “Fine.”

The rest of the morning dissolved into heat, the slide of skin against skin under the heavy blanket, tangled legs and half-choked laughter when the old bed creaked too loudly and they both froze, listening for footsteps in the hall.

No one came.

They forgot about time.

---

By the time they finally made it downstairs, it was almost noon.

The dining room buzzed. Phones on tables, screens bright. The TV near the bar was on a news site Emma knew far too well.

Her headline stared back at her.

A Village at the Edge: One Family, One Forest, One Contract.

By Emma Keller.

Her stomach swooped.

Helga saw them the second they stepped into the room. Her gaze flicked over their late entrance, the slightly dishevelled hair, the way they stood just a little too close. One corner of her mouth curved.

“You are famous now,” she said, nodding toward the TV.

“Already?” Emma breathed.

“Internet runs faster than the river,” Helga said. “Almost faster than gossip. Almost.”

Lina appeared at her grandmother’s elbow, phone in hand.

“I marked all the parts where you make him sound less stupid,” she told Emma. “There were very few, so it did not take long.”

Liam groaned. “Please tell me no one is reading the comments.”

“Too late,” Lina said cheerfully. “Some people think you are a hero. Some think you are an i***t. Some are flirting with Emma in the replies. It is chaos. I love it.”

Helga turned to Emma. “I like the line about trees not having lawyers,” she said. “You kept it.”

“I promised,” Emma said.

Helga studied her face, then Liam’s, then shrugged as if to say: so be it.

“Eat,” she said. “You both look like you fought a bear.”

Emma nearly choked. Liam coughed, eyes suddenly very interested in the bread basket.

They took a table in the corner.

During lunch people approached in waves. Mr Krüger to say that she had been fair. The young mother to whisper thank you for mentioning rent. The council woman to argue economics and then compliment her sentence structure. A teenage boy to ask Liam if the forest would still be there when he was old enough to leave and come back.

Through it all, Liam stayed close. His hand found hers under the table more than once, thumb rubbing slow circles against her skin whenever someone said something particularly harsh or particularly kind. The touch was small, invisible to everyone else, but it held her together.

Her phone buzzed.

Editor:

Piece is performing well. You broke a comment thread. Legal is grumpy but impressed. Take the night off. Or at least pretend to.

Another message from an unknown number:

If you ever want more fights to write about, call me. C.

She deleted Clara’s message with a small, defiant satisfaction.

“You look smug,” Liam said.

“Just taking out the trash,” she replied.

He stole a piece of bread from her plate. “Dangerous woman,” he murmured.

“Only for companies who try to buy forests,” she said. “And maybe for men who kiss me in public.”

He leaned a little closer, his knee pressing against hers under the table in a way that was definitely not accidental.

“Public was just dancing,” he said. “I behaved.”

“You squeezed my hand so hard I almost dropped my mug,” she said.

“That was nerves,” he replied. “Tonight I might misbehave. If you let me.”

Heat crawled up her neck.

She did not say yes.

She did not say no either.

---

That evening the lobby glowed.

Candles. Soft lights. A small group of locals and guests with mugs of mulled wine. The Christmas tree shone from the corner, less perfect than the Berlin one in her mother’s photo, more alive.

Emma smoothed her sweater, acutely aware of every place her body had remembered Liam’s hands during the day. He stood beside her in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar open just enough to show a hint of collarbone.

“You are squeezing my hand,” she whispered.

“Sorry,” he said, loosening his grip. “If anyone throws anything at you, I am stepping in front of it.”

“Very noble,” she said. “We are indoors. They have spoons.”

He bent his head closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You underestimate how much spoons can hurt,” he murmured.

Her whole body shivered.

“Stop that,” she hissed.

“Which part?” he asked, all innocence.

They endured the small talk. Some people avoided them. Some came to say they had read the article. A few thanked them both in awkward, quiet words for “not selling everything.”

At one point Markus appeared.

He and Liam stepped aside, talking in low voices. Emma pretended not to watch. There was some sharp gesturing, some tight jawlines. Then, unexpectedly, a rough clap on the shoulder.

When Liam came back, his expression was dazed.

“Well?” she asked.

“He called me an i***t,” Liam said. “Then he said if I am going to be one, he might as well help me find another investor so we fail properly. I think that is progress.”

“For your brother?” she said. “Yes.”

“For my nerves?” he said. “Not really.”

Music shifted to something slow. A couple started swaying by the tree.

Liam looked at her.

“I told you I am not a good dancer,” he said.

“Me neither,” she replied.

He held out his hand anyway.

“Come embarrass yourself with me,” he said.

She let him pull her into the small clear patch of floor. His hand slid to the small of her back, settling there like it belonged. Their bodies fit together far more easily than two people who had only known each other a few days had any right to.

They moved barely at all, just a slow shift of weight, a turn here and there. Her cheek brushed the side of his throat. She could smell his soap, the faint salt of his skin, the heat under the collar of his shirt.

“People are staring,” she murmured.

“Let them,” he said. “For once I like what they see.”

Her hand tightened in his.

She realised, very suddenly, that she did too.

When the song ended, he did not drop her hand.

“Have we done our duty?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “We have been seen.”

“Good,” he said. “Now I am going to steal you.”

He did not have to pull very hard. She followed him up the stairs, heart already beating faster in anticipation than any dance could have managed.

---

In the room the quiet wrapped around them like another layer of snow.

Emma closed the door and leaned back against it, watching him.

Liam did not bother with pretense. He crossed the space between them in three strides, braced one hand beside her head on the door and kissed her.

Hard.

Her back hit the wood with a soft thump. She inhaled sharp, then melted into it, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt. His mouth moved over hers like he had been replaying this all day in his mind and was finally catching up.

Her lips parted; his tongue slid against hers, slow and sure. Her whole body lit up.

His free hand found her hip, thumb digging into the curve there, pulling her closer until she felt every hard, eager line of him even through their clothes.

“Liam,” she breathed when he dropped his mouth to her throat.

“Still honesty hour,” he murmured against her skin. “Do you want to stop?”

She dug her fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him look at her.

“No,” she said. “I want you to keep going. That is the honest answer.”

His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing most of the grey.

“Thank God,” he said simply.

He kissed her again and walked her backwards blindly. At some point they bumped into the bed; she laughed into his mouth and tugged him down with her.

They landed in a tangle, her on her back, him half over her. His hand slipped under her sweater as if it belonged there, palm hot on her stomach, sliding up, up, leaving fire in its path.

She arched into his touch, a small sound escaping her when his thumb brushed the underside of her ribs, dangerously close to places that made thinking impossible.

“Emma,” he said, the word breaking a little in the middle.

She pulled at his shirt until he sat up just enough for her to get it over his head. The sight of him still managed to knock the breath out of her, even after last night. Broad shoulders, chest rising and falling, the faint line of hair disappearing under the waistband of his jeans.

She ran her hands over him with shameless curiosity, mapping muscle and bone, feeling him shudder under her fingers.

“You are staring,” he said, slightly breathless.

“Research,” she replied. “For my next article.”

He laughed once, then lost the ability when she leaned up and pressed her mouth to the base of his throat, tasting the thin salt line of his skin, sliding lower to the spot where his pulse beat fast.

His hands found the hem of her sweater again, this time pushing it up with more purpose. She lifted her arms, letting him pull it over her head and toss it somewhere behind him without looking.

For a moment he just looked at her, pupils huge, chest heaving.

“Beautiful,” he said, so quietly she almost missed it.

Her face flamed.

“Come here,” she said, because anything else would dissolve her entirely.

He did.

The rest blurred into heat and the slide of fabric and the awareness of his hands everywhere. The old bed complained a little; they laughed into each other’s mouths and did not stop.

The world shrank to the small, warm space under the sloped roof, to the way he fit against her and around her, to the ragged way he whispered her name when she pulled him back down each time he tried to be careful.

Later, much later, when they lay tangled again in the dark, breaths slowing, skin cooling, the party downstairs long over, Emma traced idle patterns on his chest with the tip of one finger.

“If this is a disaster,” she said into the quiet, “it is my favorite one.”

He made a tired, happy sound and pulled her closer, tucking her even more firmly under his chin as if the world might try to steal her in the night.

“Good,” he said. “Because you are mine too.”

She smiled against his skin, eyes already drifting closed.

Outside, the village prepared for Christmas under the weight of snow and the echo of a choice that would take months to fully land.

Inside the small room, two people who had not planned on any of this held on to each other as if the storm was not weather at all, but everything that still waited for them when the holiday ended.

For now, the world could wait.