Chapter 8 - Snow on Charles Street
By noon, the snowplows had carved a narrow, towering canyon through Charles Street, clearing a path down to the historic red-brick sidewalks of Beacon Hill.
Nico and I walked side by side down the snowy street, our boots crunching against the fresh powder. Passersby wrapped in heavy wool coats turned to stare—not at me, but at Nico Vale, stepping out of his usual bulletproof obscurity to walk openly down a public sidewalk on Christmas Eve. But Nico didn't look at the onlookers. His hand was firmly, possessively linked with mine inside the deep pocket of his cashmere overcoat.
When we reached the familiar green-and-gold awning of Winter & Rye, I stopped.
The front window was frosted with delicate ice crystals, but inside, the warm glow of the pastry display still radiated out into the freezing air. A handwritten sign taped to the glass by Maya—who must have returned early to check on the shop—read: CLOSED FOR HOLIDAYS. EXCEPT FOR CLARA.
"Well," I said, looking up at him, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird that had finally found an open sky. "What happens now, Mr. Vale?"
Nico stopped, turning to face me completely. The wind caught the dark locks of his hair, but his eyes were warm, steady, and utterly devoted.
"Now, Clara, you open the bakery," Nico said softly, reaching up to gently brush a snowflake from my eyelashes. "You bake whatever you want, for whoever you want. And tonight, for the first time in twenty-eight years, you sit at the head of a table where every single person in the room wants you there."
I smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that reached all the way to my eyes. "And who is going to be at this table, Mr. Vale?"
Nico’s lips curved into a slow, breathtaking smile.
"Maya, for starters," he said. "And Mrs. O’Malley has prepared a feast that will rival anything in Aspen. And myself, of course—if the most feared man in Boston is allowed to secure a permanent reservation."
May you like
I stepped closer, wrapping my arms around his neck, burying my face against the warm wool of his coat as the bells of the historic Beacon Hill church began to ring out across the snow-covered city, chiming in the magic of Christmas Eve.
"Reservation confirmed," I whispered against his chest.
