Back with His Twins for Christmas

Chapter 13

POV Charlotte

The twins fell asleep within minutes of each other, their breathing soft and synchronized in the cabin's dim light. Leah sprawled across her pillow with limbs flung in every direction; Noah curled tight around his truck.

I watched them for longer than necessary, memorizing the peace on their faces, before slipping out into the cold.

My phone buzzed against my thigh. Tom's name flashed across the screen—the seventh call in twenty minutes, followed by a text that read simply: Where are you?

I silenced it and kept walking.

The maintenance shed glowed with harsh fluorescent light, its windows cutting squares of brightness into the darkness. I found Dean hunched over the backup generator, his hands black with grease, his expression closed off in a way that made my chest tighten.

"We need to talk," I said from the doorway.

Dean didn't look up. His wrench scraped against metal with a sound that set my teeth on edge. "I can talk while I work. Say whatever you came to say."

I stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind me against the mountain cold. The space smelled of motor oil and sawdust, honest smells that reminded me of late nights in Mrs. Garrett's garage, fixing her ancient washing machine while my belly grew round with twins.

"Tomorrow, a team of specialists will arrive," I began, keeping my voice steady, professional. "Contractors, electricians, equipment operators. Professionals who will take over much of what you've been handling alone."

The wrench clattered against the generator housing as Dean straightened, anger flashing across his features like lightning.

"What does that mean? I'm being fired? After years of keeping this place from collapsing, your boyfriend shows up with his checkbook and suddenly I'm disposable?"

"No." I held up both hands, palms out. "That's not what this is. You're not being replaced, Dean—you're being repositioned. The resort's social media presence needs authenticity, and you're going to provide it. You and Peyton, working together. Behind-the-scenes content, the rugged mountain aesthetic that actually sells in this market. Real footage of real work, not staged nonsense that audiences see through in seconds."

Dean's jaw tightened, that familiar wall slamming into place.

"I already refused this idea once. Remember? Earlier today, when you ambushed me outside the equipment shed with your tablet and your marketing work?"

"This resort matters to you," I pressed, stepping closer despite every instinct screaming at me to maintain distance. "It matters to everyone—my parents, the staff, the entire town that depends on this place surviving. I'm doing everything I can to save it, Dean. My team from Seattle arrives tomorrow morning. Professional filmmakers, copywriters, people I've worked with for years. We're launching a coordinated campaign to put Evergreen Peaks on the map before the festival opens. This is our last chance."

He studied my face for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind those steel-blue eyes. Then he exhaled, sharp and bitter, and turned back to the generator.

"Fine. But only for the resort. For your parents, who actually deserve saving." His voice dropped, hardening into something that cut. "Don't think for a second I'm going along with whatever game you and Tom are playing. I saw how you let him touch you today. Saw how your mother looked at him like he was the Second Coming. You're right back where you started, Charlotte—letting that man call the shots while you smile and pretend everything's fine."

The accusation ignited something volcanic in my chest, fury rising so fast it choked me.

"You think I'm his partner in this? You think I'm playing some game?"

My voice cracked, years of suppressed struggle flooding out before I could stop it.

"Do you have any idea what my life looked like after I left Pine Ridge? I worked as an SMM assistant at a bakery while I was pregnant, Dean. I managed their social accounts and scrubbed their floors for minimum wage, and I did it with morning sickness so bad I had to keep a bucket behind the counter."

I paused to dump all my experience of recent years on him.

"When that wasn't enough, I took handyman jobs—fixing things for an elderly woman named Mrs. Garrett who reminded me so much of my parents that it made me cry every time I left her apartment. I needed every dollar I could scrape together because I had no one. No family. No support. Nothing but my own two hands and a belly full of babies I was terrified I couldn't provide for."

Dean had gone still, his wrench frozen mid-motion. I couldn't stop now—the dam had broken, and everything I'd carried alone for six years came pouring out.

"I built my client list with infants in my arms. I pitched campaigns during naptime, sitting on the floor of our one-bedroom apartment while Leah and Noah slept in a secondhand crib I'd found at a thrift store."

I felt a new wave of disgust toward Tom. Tom, who once again had sufficient leverage over me.

"I edited texts at three in the morning between feedings, so exhausted I could barely see the screen, because I refused to fail. I refused to crawl back to my parents and prove them right. I refused to be the cautionary tale everyone expected."

"What was Tom doing?" Dean's voice came out quiet, stripped of its earlier hostility. "During all of this. Where was he?"

I laughed, and the sound tasted like broken glass.

"Tom was studying. Living his comfortable life in his comfortable apartment with his comfortable trust fund. And whenever we fought—which was constantly, because apparently I was too independent, too stubborn, too unwilling to let him make every decision—he cut me off financially. Just turned off the tap and waited for me to crawl back and beg for scraps."

I lifted my chin, something fierce and proud burning through the exhaustion.

"But I never did. Not once. I made myself into something without him, without anyone, and I will not let you stand here and act like I'm his willing accomplice in anything."

Something shifted in Dean's expression—the hardness softening into something that looked dangerously like respect. Or guilt. Or both tangled together in a way that made my throat tighten.

I caught the change and raised my defenses immediately, armor sliding back into place.

"I don't need your pity. I didn't tell you any of that so you'd feel sorry for me. I told you so you'd understand that I know exactly what I'm doing, and I'm doing it for my children. For my parents. For everyone except Tom Bradley."

Dean opened his mouth to respond—

The generator emitted a sudden grinding screech, metal shrieking against metal with a violence that shattered every thought in my head.

I didn't think. My body moved on pure instinct, launching itself at the nearest solid thing—which happened to be six feet of Dean Sawyer.

My arms wrapped around him before I could stop myself, my face pressing into his chest, his flannel soft against my cheek as my heart pounded with irrational terror.

For a moment, neither of us moved.