“Okay.” I twisted my fingers together at my waist. My insides were all tangled up. “Can I at least walk you out?”

“I’m good. I know my way.” Clearly wishing to keep his distance—and for me to keep mine—he gave me a wave and headed for the front hall, where a door would lead him down the private corridor to the inn’s executive offices.

I heard it open and close softly.

He was gone before I could even say goodbye. Or tell him not to be sorry. Or beg him to kiss me again.

What the hell?

Left standing there alone on trembling legs, I wrapped one arm around my jittery stomach and placed one hand over my mouth. A minute ago, Henry’s lips had been on mine. His hands had been on my skin. The hard length of his dick had been trapped between the heat of our bodies.

And I’d loved every second of it.

My God, how long had it been since I’d been kissed like that? Touched like that? Wanted like that? Because there was no doubt in my mind that Henry had wanted me—I’d felt it. I wished I could have felt more of it.

I glared at the mantel. Fucking asshole clock.

Lowering myself gingerly onto the couch, I took a few minutes to catch my breath. As my pulse slowed, my senses returned.

Maybe it was for the best that we’d been interrupted. After all, it’s not like we could have taken it much farther. Were we going to take our clothes off in front of the Christmas tree? At my parents’ house? With my children asleep upstairs?

No. Of course we weren’t. And that was a good thing.

Because as intoxicating as it had felt to be thoroughly ravished by Henry tonight, I wasn’t ready for more. And given the way he’d hustled out of here tonight, muttering apologetic words—that won’t happen again—he wasn’t either.

But damn.

The man could kiss.

* * *

Christmas morning, the kids woke me up before eight, bubbling over with excitement because they’d peeked downstairs and it was clear that Santa knew they’d moved to Cloverleigh Farms—there were all kinds of presents under the tree for them. Even if they no longer believed, they faked it convincingly and enthusiastically, maybe even just for me. But it made me happy.

Shoving my feet into fuzzy slippers, I threw on a robe and followed them downstairs, inhaling the smell of coffee brewing. My parents were in the kitchen, my mother mixing up waffle batter and my dad slicing bananas for a fruit salad. There was a fire going in the fireplace, and Bing Crosby crooned “White Christmas” over the speakers.

“Morning,” I chirped, reaching into the cupboard for a coffee cup.

“Morning, dear.” My mom smiled at me. “How’d you sleep?”