Back with His Twins for Christmas

Chapter 12

POV Charlotte

I stood outside the playroom door for ten minutes, listening.

Dean's voice carried through the wood—low, steady, fierce with a protectiveness that made my chest ache.

No one is going to hurt you. Or your mom. Not while I'm here.

I pressed my palm flat against the door, breathing through the tears that blurred my vision. My children, tucked against his chest like they belonged there. My children, telling him about Tom's cruelty with the kind of trust they'd never shown anyone else.

My children, who might be his.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, forcing steadiness into my fingers, composing my face into something neutral.

Ten minutes of eavesdropping had left me raw and exposed, but Charlotte Evergreen didn't fall apart in hallways. Charlotte Evergreen pushed forward.

I opened the door with manufactured casualness, letting my gaze sweep the room as if I'd just arrived. "Where did Peyton run off to? I thought she was supposed to be watching you all."

Dean answered evenly, still sitting on the playroom floor with a twin tucked under each arm. "Emergency spa client. She asked me to stay until you were free."

His expression shifted the moment he registered my presence—the warmth draining away, replaced by something guarded and distant. The wall he maintained with me, solid as ever.

The contrast stung more than I wanted to admit. The man who'd just promised my children protection looked at me like I was a stranger he didn't particularly want to know.

"Thank you for watching them," I said, keeping my voice businesslike, professional, stripped of anything that might betray the chaos beneath. "I can take over from here. But when you're off work tonight, we need to talk."

Dean's gaze sharpened, those steel-blue eyes—God, those eyes, how had I never seen it before?—cutting through my careful composure.

"About what?"

The question carried weight, an undercurrent I wasn't ready to address. I could hear what he wasn't asking: About your ex showing up like he owns the place? About the way you let him touch you? About the children sitting in my arms with my mother's eyes?

"Work," I said quickly, too quickly, the word tumbling out before I could measure it. "It's important. Tom's investment changes things—there's more to coordinate now, less time before the festival. I need to walk you through all the logistics we discussed. Everything's accelerated now, and we can't afford to fall behind just because the financial picture shifted."

Dean studied my face with the kind of attention that made me want to squirm. He wasn't buying it. I could see the skepticism in every line of his jaw, the way his arms tightened almost imperceptibly around my children.

"Just work?" The flatness in his voice made the question feel like an accusation.

I pretended not to understand the implication, launching into a rambling explanation about timelines and deliverables and the importance of authentic content in a saturated market.

"Fine." Dean cut me off, the single word landing like a door slamming shut.

I swallowed the rest of my nervous monologue and turned to the twins, forcing brightness into my voice.

"Time to say goodbye to Dean, you two. We should let him get back to work, and you both need baths before dinner."

Leah launched herself upright with the dramatic flair of a stage actress, her small arms wrapping around Dean's neck in an embrace that looked like it might strangle him.

"Goodbye, Dean! I'll miss you SO much, even though I'll probably see you tomorrow, but that's still a really long time when you think about it. Will you teach me more skiing? And can we fix more things together? Noah wants to fix things too, he told me, even though he didn't actually say it out loud, but I could tell because I'm his twin and twins know things."

Noah offered a quiet wave from his spot on the floor, his dark eyes tracking Dean's movements with an intensity that made something twist beneath my ribs. He clutched his repaired truck against his chest—the truck Dean had fixed, the truck my son hadn't let go of since.

Dean rose to his feet, and I caught the face he made at the children behind my back—some exaggerated expression, eyes crossed and tongue out, that made both twins dissolve into giggles despite the tension crackling through the room.

Leah's laugh rang out bright and delighted; even Noah's quiet smile transformed his solemn face into something lighter.

I grabbed Dean's arm without thinking, my fingers closing around warm flannel and solid muscle, and the contact sent an unwanted jolt through my entire body. Heat. Awareness. The ghost of a memory I'd spent seven years trying to bury.

"Behave," I told him, but there was no real anger in it. I couldn't find anger, not when he'd just made my children laugh, not when he'd held them and promised to protect them without knowing the magnitude of what that promise might mean.

Dean's mouth quirked, the barest hint of something that wasn't quite a smile, and for one heartbeat the wall between us thinned.

Then I dropped his arm like it burned, and the wall slammed back into place.

We stepped into the hallway together, and I closed the playroom door behind us, keeping my voice low enough that small ears wouldn't catch it. "We'll talk tonight. But while Tom is here, I need you to—"

Dean's expression darkened before I could finish, storm clouds rolling across his features.

"Play nice? Pretend he's not the same guy who made you miserable? Fall in line like everyone else around here seems happy to do?" He stepped back, creating distance between us, and the space felt deliberate. Pointed. "You're playing by his rules again, Charlotte. Just like high school. Just like always."

The accusation landed like a slap, heat flooding my cheeks even as the words cut somewhere deeper.

I opened my mouth to defend myself, to explain the impossible position I was trapped in—Tom's threats, my parents' desperate hope, the secret burning a hole through my chest—but Dean was already turning away.

"I thought maybe you'd changed," he said, his voice cold now, dismissive in a way that hurt worse than anger. "Guess I was wrong. Same Lottie, different decade."

He walked away before I could respond, his shoulders rigid, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor. I watched him go until he disappeared around the corner, and then I sagged against the door, pressing my forehead to the wood with a soft thunk.

The weight of it pressed down on me—Tom's manipulation, Dean's contempt, the truth sitting heavy in my chest like a stone I couldn't put down.

The same two men. The same impossible situation.

Seven years later, and I was right back where I started.