Blake is not in the bed when I wake. He's in the kitchen in his pajamas, sipping a cup of coffee and staring out into the bleak white sky. It's uglier today.

His gaze turns to me.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"I'll tell you if I'm not."

"But—"

"Don't ask again."

He's clearly not okay, but I won't get anywhere by pushing it. I go back to the bathroom, brush my teeth, apply a touch of makeup, and change into jeans and a wool sweater.

When I return to the kitchen, Blake is dressed in a similar outfit.

His eyes find mine. "Are you hungry?"

"I'll grab something at Starbucks."

"You want to go to Starbucks?"

I nod.

"Why?"

He stares at me like I'm crazy. Most New Yorkers take pride in their hatred of Starbucks, only stopping at the chain coffee shop if it’s particularly convenient. And I certainly don't make a point of visiting chains when there are so many independent shops to choose from.

But, dammit, we're getting into the holiday spirit and that's going to start with a sugary espresso drink.

For a moment, I reconsider my plan. Blake drinks his coffee black. He'll order a black coffee, hate it, and start the day off grumpy. But he does like chocolate. And when it's mixed with mint, it's so sublimely seasonal.

At the very least, he can taste it on my lips.

"For the holiday drinks," I say.

He looks at me even more curiously.

"I know you like chocolate syrup." I fold my arms over my chest. "Don't pretend otherwise."

"Is that a request?"

My cheeks flush. "Maybe later."

He moves closer. His hands go to my wrists and he unwraps my arms then places them around him. I squeeze tightly, breathing in the smell of his soap.

He runs his fingers through my hair. "Today, you're in charge."

A thrill passes through me. I need to bring my A-game. I nod and press my lips into his. "Are you hungry?"

"I ate."

"Then get your coat so we can go." I find my boots and step into them. "We'll walk to the lot. We can take a cab home."

He raises an eyebrow like he's not sure about my plan, but he doesn't object. It's true, cabs don't always look kindly on strapping Christmas trees to the roof. But I'm not about to shove an evergreen into Blake's limo.

Outside, the wind is cold and the air is heavy. Those clouds mean snow. If not today then tomorrow. My breath hitches. Real snow would be amazing. A white Christmas is like something out of a dream.

It's only a few blocks to the closest Starbucks. Blake squeezes my hand, no protests, no demands, no sign he's anything but okay. He looks around the chain coffee house with amusement.

I order a peppermint mocha, no whipped cream for him, and a gingerbread latte and an egg sandwich for me. He tries to pay, but I beat him on the draw. No way is Blake paying for any of this holiday stuff. That's all on me. I've barely touched the two hundred thousand dollars Meryl left me. My scholarship covers tuition, books, and a meal plan.

We take a seat at a tiny table in the corner. Blake looks so tall in the little chair, but he still fits in.

"Was there anything you ever liked about Christmas?" I ask.

He drags his fingertips over my palm. "When we were very young, Meryl sent me and Fiona to stay with our grandmother."

"You liked her?"

Blake shakes his head.

I really can't catch a break with this holiday thing. "What did you like about the trips to your grandmother's house?"

He nearly smiles. "The chocolate."

Right on cue, one of the baristas calls out our drink orders. At the counter, my sandwich is up. It takes two trips to get everything back to the table, but I insist on doing it myself.

There's affection in Blake's eyes. He holds the cup under his nose, smelling it the way most people smell wine. He takes a small sip and his face screws in surprise.

"This is all sugar," he says.

"Of course. That's the point of the holiday drinks. Massive amounts of sugar to temporarily boost your mood and energy. Then caffeine to keep it boosted." I practically inhale my sandwich. It's not the best thing I've ever tasted, but I'm damn hungry.

"You've thought about this."

I sip my gingerbread-flavored drink. It is awfully sweet, so sweet and so artificially flavored that I can barely taste the coffee.

He takes another sip. There's no surprise on his face this time. There's also no sign he's enjoying his beverage.

His eyes find mine. "You're sweet, Kat—"

"But you hate it?"

He nods. "Coffee is meant to be bitter."

“Like you?”

“Of course.” He half-smiles as he offers me his drink.

I take the cup and take a tiny sip. Despite its obscene level of sugar, it's delicious. Comforting, creamy, warm. A wonderful mix of cocoa and mint. Much better than the gingerbread.

"I'll keep this one." I toss the other drink in the trash on our way out the door.

The cold air is in sharp contrast to the warm drink in my hands. I pull my coat a little tighter.

I squeeze Blake's hand, running my thumb over his first two fingers. "What did you like about the chocolate at your grandma's?"

"We never had candy at home. Meryl was strict about eating well."

"Really?"

He nods. "Vegetables with dinner. Fruit for dessert."

"But she…" I struggle to come up with an explanation that isn't but your late mother was a lush. A very sweet lush, but a lush who died of liver disease nonetheless.

"Was an alcoholic. You can say it." He stops at a red light. "She said it openly."

I look both ways. No cars. We're still deep in the upper East side. I jaywalk across the street. Blake follows me.

"Okay. Yes," I say. "She was an alcoholic. She loved all sensory delights. I can't imagine her depriving you of candy."

"She wanted better for me and Fiona. She was happy when she met you."

"She saw right through me," I say.

"That’s why she liked you." His gaze goes to the ground. "She had to drink. It was the only way she knew how to survive."

I bite my lip. All things considered, an aversion to Christmas and a habit of working sixty hours a week—down from a hundred—are pretty functional coping mechanisms. Better than turning to booze or running off to a loveless marriage.

But I don’t care.

Blake isn’t running away on my watch.

I'm afraid to ask my next question, but I do it anyway. "Why did you go to your grandma's house for Christmas?"

His expression steels. He pulls his hand away from mine and shoves it into his pocket. For three blocks he says nothing.

When he does speak, his voice is unsteady. "My father was the worst during the holidays."

There's this tightness in my chest. I'm terrified to ask him to explain. I can't do it here. Not yet.

Instead, I lock my arm with his and stay as close as I can. We only talk when we stop in a local cafe and order him a black coffee.

He's stuck in a bad memory, but I'm not about to let him stay there. I check the maps application on my phone. Perfect. There's a Duane Reade five blocks and one avenue over. It's a little out of the way, but it's worth the extra walk.

"Follow me." I lead us out of the cafe and away from the park.

Blake looks at me curiously, though not as curiously as when I suggested Starbucks. Still, he follows without protest, even as I walk into the drug store.

I go straight to the candy aisle. "I'm sure your grandmother had some kind of fancy chocolate, but there must be something close here."

He scans the shelf. His eyes fall on a pale yellow box of inexpensive truffles. He picks them up, examining them carefully. "Meryl's mother was poor. She couldn't afford to spend money on candy."

He leans down to pick up another bag of chocolates—a holiday blend with peppermint flavor and candy cane pieces. Without a word, he hands it to me. His eyes meet mine. They're filled with confidence like he knows I'm desperate for the holiday themed chocolate.

"Thank you," I say. "That looks great."

His lips curl into the tiniest smile.

"Do you want anything else?" I ask.

He shakes his head and takes a long sip of his coffee as if to say I only want this. Then he presses his lips against my cheek as if to add me to the list of things he wants.

I buy the chocolate at the register. The cashier thanks us with a Merry Christmas. Blake cringes but stays silent. He follows me outside where I tear off the chocolate's plastic then pull open the lid.

I offer him the candy. "Did you have a favorite?"

He picks a picks a chocolate-covered truffle, bites it in half, chews, and swallows. "Not quite as sweet as your drink." He offers me the remaining half.

I take it and pop it into my mouth, much less graceful than he was. It's not as good as the dark chocolate in his kitchen, but it's not half bad. "Thank you."

"Do you plan on eating the entire box?" he asks.

"You had good memories of chocolate. You're eating another chocolate."

His lips curl into a half smile. He nods and does as he's told. This time, he picks something filled with caramel. Of course, Blake manages to avoid getting a single bit of caramel on his face.

He points to the box. "And one more for you."

"I'm going to collapse of a sugar overdose."

"I'll make sure you use the energy."

My cheeks flush. I scan the candies and pick one at random. A raspberry cream. It tastes artificial. A year ago, I'd be enamored with the flavor. Blake has ruined me for normal food.

"Thinking about anything?" I ask.

"Only that you're sweet."

Okay, that's a start. A new, holiday adjacent memory—the time his fiancée forced him to eat cheap drug store chocolates. One memory down, a thousand to go.

I press the lid over the box, slide it back in the plastic bag, and sling the bag around my wrist. We make the rest of the twenty minute walk in silence.

Finally, we reach the Christmas tree lot. It's small, about a thousand square feet, and surrounded by a metal gate. The trees are so close together that there's almost no room to move around them. Everything smells like pine, like Christmas.

There are lots of other people here, couples and families mostly, but they all fade away. My attention goes to a tree in the corner. It's on the shorter side, missing a few branches. By all accounts, it's ugly, but that imperfection is charming.

"What are you thinking?" Blake asks.

"That tree." I point to it. "It reminds me of my first Christmas with Lizzy after the accident."

His voice softens. He drags his fingertips over my neck. His skin is so warm. It melts all the chill around us.

"Tell me about it," he says.

I turn to Blake to look into his eyes. He's hard to read, as usual, but he seems okay.

"She hated being in a car. She still does. I wasn't about to lug a tree back to our apartment, so we looked for something at the drug store. They only had one tree, and it was about two feet tall and metallic purple."

"It sounds charming."

"It was." I lean into his chest. "We didn't really know what to do. Our parents had always been big on the holiday. They were schoolteachers and winter break meant they had a lot of time to celebrate. I was lost without them."

He plays with my hair. "You miss them."

"Of course." I bring my gaze back to the charming little tree. "The pain was fresh, but it helped to move forward. We did everything differently. We ordered Chinese food instead of cooking a big dinner. We decorated that tiny tree with exactly three candy canes. And we each bought a single present. I got a Star Trek sweater for Lizzy. She bought me a manga from the used book store at the library. And we stayed up all night to watch The Matrix Trilogy for the eight millionth time."

He sighs. "Kat, you have no idea what you do to me."

I meet his gaze, totally unable to read his expression. "What's that?"

"The world is beautiful through your eyes. I wish I could use them all the time."

"The world is beautiful."

His eyes fill with affection. He brushes the hair behind my ear with a soft touch. "You've been through so much and you're still idealistic."

"No." I bite my lip. "I just… look at these trees—" I point to a tall evergreen, lush with pine needles. "They're beautiful. And the park. And the streets. And the sky." My gaze goes back to his eyes. "And you. When you smile or laugh."

His expression changes. Almost like he's overwhelmed. But Blake doesn't get overwhelmed. And certainly not by me.

His fingertips skim my chin, sending warmth straight to my belly. He tilts me so we're eye to eye. "I love you."

"I love you too."

He pulls me into a tight hug then releases me. I give him space to sort out whatever it is that's going through his gorgeous head.

There's a family picking out a tree. The parents are in their thirties. They have a daughter about four or five years old. She's wearing a bright pink coat and she runs around like doesn't believe anything will ever hurt her. When she trips, she picks herself up like it's nothing.

She runs straight to the tallest tree in the lot. Then she tugs at it like she needs it right now. She's adorable and she's happy.

Everyone here is happy.

Everyone except Blake. He has a frown on his face. He's watching another family, a man in his thirties and a little boy who can't be older than ten. The man is yelling at his son. The kid is holding an empty cup and the man's jeans are stained with hot chocolate. It's such a small thing to yell over, but the man is angry.

And then the man reaches out and grabs his son so hard the child cries.

Blake's expression hardens. His hands go to his pockets. He doesn't have to say anything. I know what this means. He needs to get out of here and now.

"I'll call your driver," I say. I grab Blake's hand and drag him to the street. It's tough to dial one-handed, but I make do.

Jordan picks up. "How can I help you Ms. Wilder?"

"Can you meet us a Fifty-Ninth and Fifth? I'm going to start walking from First."

"You're not far from Blake's place—"

"Please hurry." I hang up the call and shove my phone into my pocket. I bite my lip, cursing myself for sounding so obnoxious. I worked in a restaurant for three years. I always hated when people asked me to hurry as if I wasn't already going as fast as I could.

I look into Blake's eyes. It's like I'm losing him. He's going off somewhere far away, to something that rips a hole through his gut. I know that feeling, not to the extent he does, but I know it. Every time I hear about some horrible car accident, I can't breathe and I'm sure I'm about to break in two.

The only thing that keeps me functioning is knowing my sister is okay.

The limo meets us around Third Avenue. Jordan got here fast. There's no forced decorum. I pull the door open for Blake and wait for him to climb inside.

Everything eases once we're alone. Or as good as alone. I offer Jordan a friendly nod. "Back to Blake's place."

Blake shakes his head. "You need your tree."

"Okay. How about we get a plastic tree at Target?"

He nods.

"The one in Brooklyn if there's not too much traffic." I go to roll up the partition.

"It should be about twenty minutes if you'd like some privacy." Jordan's tone is unreadable, but his implication is clear. There are twenty minutes to fuck.

Blake presses his back against the seat. There's less tension in his shoulders. There's less pain in his expression.

"Are you sure you want to stay out?" I ask.

"I told you not to ask if I'm okay."

I scoot onto his bench seat and move as close to him as I can.

He's still tense, turned away from me like he's lost in some well of agony deep enough to drown him.

I go to take his hand, but he pulls it into his lap.

"Talk to me," I say. "Please."

"Not now."

"Please."

"That man. He looked like Orson. Handsome, charismatic, and vile to the core."

"You don't know…" I hold my tongue. There's no sense in arguing over whether or not a stranger is vile. We'll never see him again. "Tell me about it."

His gaze goes to the tinted window. It's a charcoal color and it's totally opaque. It can't be an interesting view.

I squeeze his hand. "Please."

"My father kept it together when he was sober, but alcohol brought out all the hate inside him. One night, he came home drunk. Meryl had lit candles. She tried to keep things normal, even when we were old enough to understand exactly how despicable he was."

I squeeze him tighter.

"He knocked over one of the candles. The presents caught fire. Then the tree. He stood there, laughing as we tried to put it out. There was a fire extinguisher under the sink, but by the time we put the tree out it was charred and black. When I tried to take it down—" Blake's gaze drifts to the floor.

"He hit you?"

Blake nods. "It was the first time I kept him from hurting her."

My heart pounds against my chest. "How old were you?"

"Ten."

God, I can't breathe. I can't think. The limo feels darker and colder. Blake has to live with these memories every day. How many are there? How deep do they go? He's quiet about his father, but I know there were years of abuse.

It might be better to let him disappear. It's only a few days.

"Don't feel sorry for me, Kat. I can't stand it."

"Are you sure you can do this?"

His expression hardens.

He shakes his head. He turns, his eyes passing over me slowly. He brings his hands to my shoulder and traces my neckline. "You have a bruise."

I look down. I do have a soft purple bruise next to my collarbone. From yesterday, though from the regret in Blake's eyes I'm sure he realizes this.

"I hurt you," he says.

"I like it. I feel marked."

The car stops. Must be a red light. I go to stroke his hair but he turns away.

"You're not like your father," I say.

"He took control by hurting the people around him."

"You don't take anything, Blake. I give you control because I want it that way. Don't you remember what you said about how much I want that, how much I need it?"

His gaze goes back to the dark window.

"Was that a lie to seduce me?" I ask.

His voice is clipped. "No."

"It's barely more than a hickey," I say.

"If we keep this up, I might not be able to stop the next time you ask."

"You will."

"I'll hurt you."

I run my fingers through his hair, grabbing him hard and turning him to face me. "You won't. I trust you."

He presses the top of his forehead against mine. That sense of closeness overwhelms me. He's not a million miles away. He's here with me, in this tiny limo.

"I trust your judgement," he says.

But the truth is I'm shaking. I'm not so sure I trust myself to pull this off.