Chapter 003

Dolly’s POV

If heartbreak had a cure, Lena was convinced it came in three forms:

Hot chocolate so sweet it could induce a coma.

Christmas movies so stupid they rewrote your brain chemistry.

Avoiding all adult responsibilities until January.

Which was how I ended up being dragged downstairs the next evening, half-asleep, half-resisting, fully doomed.

“Come on, wounded penguin,” Lena said, tugging me by the wrist. “Movie night waits for no emotional wreck.”

“I’m not a penguin.”

“You waddled out of your room earlier. Case closed.”

I groaned but followed. I needed the stupidity. I needed anything that didn’t involve crying in front of fireplaces or…

reacting to Lena’s father like a hormonal camp counselor.

The lounge was dim and warm, fairy lights dripping along the walls, the giant TV already queued up with a movie Lena insisted was “iconic.” (It had a 2.1 rating. I checked.)

And then I saw him.

Jace Steadman.

Sitting on the large sofa with a book in hand.

Glasses on.

Sweater sleeves pushed up.

Looking like a Christmas-themed sin.

He wasn’t even pretending not to look at me this time.

His eyes lifted the second I stepped inside, lingering for a beat too long, too focused —

then he lowered them back to his page as if the damage wasn’t already done.

My pulse tripped over itself.

Lena nudged me. “Girl, relax. He’s just reading.”

No.

He wasn’t.

He was doing that thing again — appearing calm while his attention wrapped around me like a magnetic field he pretended not to notice.

I told myself it was coincidence.

I told myself last night had messed with my common sense.

I told myself I wasn’t imagining anything.

I lied beautifully.

Conflict arrived exactly three minutes later.

“There aren’t enough seats,” Lena announced, hands on hips.

Bianca had claimed an armchair like it was a throne. A few other people sat on smaller sofas. That left the floor, a rug, and… nothing else.

“Dolly can sit on the floor,” Lena declared, pointing at the carpet. “Your delicate heartbreak butt can handle it.”

I opened my mouth to agree — anything to avoid more awkwardness.

Then a quiet, deep voice cut in.

“The floor is cold.”

Jace didn’t even look up fully.

He just… patted his knee.

My soul left my body.

Lena choked on air. Bianca froze. I stared at him like he’d suddenly spoken ancient Greek.

“Sit,” he said calmly, as if this were a normal sentence. As if fathers routinely let their daughter’s best friend sit on their lap in front of the whole lodge.

I wanted the earth to swallow me whole.

“I—it’s fine,” I stammered, heat crawling up my neck. “I can sit anywhere.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Dolly.” Just my name, but dripping with a heat that curled low in my stomach.

That was all it took.

My legs carried me forward before my brain could object. I eased onto his lap hesitantly, stiff as a malfunctioning robot.

There.

Done.

I was sitting on Lena’s father.

No big deal.

Totally normal.

Nothing insane about this.

Except everything.

Bianca stared like she had witnessed a scandal.

Lena whispered, “Jesus CHRIST,” under her breath.

And Jace…

Jace simply slipped an arm around my waist to steady me.

My heart tried to detonate.

Resolution — or something pretending to be one — came when the movie started.

I forced myself to breathe.

Focus.

Act natural.

But sitting naturally on his lap was impossible.

He was warm, solid, close enough that every inhale lifted my spine against his chest.

I tried leaning forward.

His arm pulled me back gently.

I tried shifting sideways.

His hand steadied my hip with a quiet, casual possessiveness that had no right to feel like that.

I tried pretending my body wasn’t reacting like I’d swallowed electricity.

Fail.

Fail.

Spectacular fail.

Halfway through the movie, he leaned in — close enough that his breath warmed the shell of my ear.

“Relax,” he murmured.

Two syllables.

That was it.

My entire body flinched like I’d been touched by lightning.

He felt it — I knew he did — because his hand on my waist tightened just slightly, fingers curving with a familiarity he shouldn’t have, restraint holding him in place.

And maybe I imagined it…

but I swore his exhale was rougher than before.

When the credits rolled, I tried to get up quickly — escape before I did something embarrassing like burst into flames.

But the moment I shifted forward, his hand slid.

From my waist…

to my hip…

slow, controlled, unmistakably intentional.

Every nerve in my body snapped awake.

I turned my head, breath caught in my throat.

He was already watching me.

 Not his usual polite stare. This one was darker, intent, a quiet kind of trouble that said he knew exactly what that did to me..

And he wasn’t sorry.

Not even a little.

My pulse slammed against my ribs.

He kept his hand exactly where it was — not gripping, not withdrawing — just resting with a pressure that said:

Don’t pretend you didn’t feel that.

The room felt too small.

The air too warm.

My thoughts too loud.

I tried to breathe normally, but it was pointless—because right then, his hand shifted. Just barely. Just enough for one fingertip to trail up along my waist like he was testing how far he could go… or how much I would let him.

My breath stuttered.

He didn’t push. Didn’t pull. Didn’t even speak.

He just held my gaze—steady, knowing, impossibly calm—while that single touch burned straight through me.

Heat curled low in my stomach. Panic tangled with want. My heart slammed so hard it hurt.