I laughed, taking the glass from her. “Thanks. And speaking of talent.” I gestured toward the photos. “Did you take these?”

She glanced at them. “Yes. A long time ago.”

“They’re beautiful, Sylvia. You have a gift.”

“Thank you.” She sipped her scotch. “I was thinking of maybe talking to my parents about taking some photos for the website and social media. Do you know who runs those accounts?”

“At one point, I think Frannie, but after she left to start the pastry shop, I think social media has sort of been neglected. Talk to Chloe—I bet she’d know.”

“I will. There has to be some way to make myself useful around here, right? I’m just not good at too many things.”

She said it as a joke, but I got the feeling there was something serious in her words too. “Sylvia, you’re good at a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“You’re an amazing mom. You’re a talented photographer. You’re a fast learner. You’re good with social media. You’re good with social anything—and you can talk to anyone.”

She shrugged it off, like it was nothing. “Talking to people isn’t that hard.”

“Are you kidding? It is hard, and you make it look easy. The other night I overheard Noah telling Meg to make sure you get on the board of his Veterans and service dog charity because he’s positive you can talk people into writing big fat checks.”

She giggled and sipped her scotch again. “I am pretty good at that.”

“See?” I elbowed her gently. “So don’t sell yourself short. You’ve got a lot to offer.”

“I’m looking forward to working in the winery,” she said. “I’d love to be good at that. I know I’m not qualified to replace Chloe as the manager, but maybe in the future . . .”

“I can easily see that in your future. Your life here is just getting started, Sylvia. You can do anything you want.”

She looked up at me, and my blood rushed faster. My arm was still touching hers. I dropped my eyes to those sweet cherry-red lips and imagined the taste of scotch on them.

Her chin lifted slightly. I inclined my head and heard her quick inhale.

Then I came to my senses and lifted my glass, finishing my drink in a couple quick swallows. “Should we get started?”

“Oh. Yes. Good idea.” She seemed a little flustered as she set her glass aside.

Removing my coat, I draped it over one arm of the couch before following her through the kitchen and out to the garage. Together we brought in more than a dozen presents, already wrapped and labeled for her children from Santa Claus.

“What’s the big one?” I asked, pointing at a large rectangular box designated for Keaton.

“A telescope,” she said. “Keaton has been dying for one. He’s into astronomy. I think it’s the whole Star Wars thing.”

“Hey, if Star Wars gets kids into astronomy, that’s pretty fucking cool.”

“I’m just hoping I can figure out how to set it up. I’m not too mechanically inclined, and neither is my dad, no matter what he tells you.”

I laughed. “I’d be glad to help. Just let me know.”

When everything was arranged beneath the tree, we stood side by side, looking at it all.

It reminded me of my childhood, of coming downstairs and seeing the piles of gifts for my brothers and me—not as many, of course, and not as beautifully wrapped, but evidence that Santa was real and that I’d been good enough to deserve presents from him. We’d rip them open all at once, and the living room would be a chaotic mess of shredded paper and ribbon, but even my fastidious mom wouldn’t care. She and my dad would sit on the couch with their coffee and act surprised by every gift we opened, asking to look at it more closely, saying of course it was okay if we played with it now. Then they’d go into the kitchen and make breakfast together—she’d scramble the eggs and fry the bacon and he’d make hash browns from scratch. Best Christmas mornings ever. I fucking wanted that feeling back, and only family could deliver it. How the hell had Sylvia’s husband thrown it away?

For a moment, I allowed myself a little fantasy—Sylvia was my wife, we were in our home, and we were up late playing Santa for our children.

This is what it would be like, I thought, coming in from the party in our formal clothes, quickly and quietly getting the gifts under the tree, laughing a little because we were tipsy and it was Christmas and we had everything we could ever want. And when we were done, we’d go upstairs and I’d unzip that red dress and she’d unbutton my shirt and we’d make love even though it was late and we were tired and we’d be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to watch our kids open their presents in wide-eyed delight. Maybe her hair would be a mess and she’d have mascara under her eyes, but I’d look at her and know I was married to the sexiest, most amazing woman in the world.

I saw it way too clearly. That was fucked up. What was in that expensive scotch, anyway?

Next to me, Sylvia sighed. “I don’t even know for sure if they still believe in Santa Claus, but I’m not about to ruin it for them. They’ve had enough taken away from them this year.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey. Everything okay?” Sylvia tugged on my sleeve.

“Yeah.”

“What are you thinking about?”

I faced her. Spoke quietly but firmly. “What a good mother you are. How lucky your kids are to have you.”

She looked down at her feet. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” I put my fingers under her chin and tilted her head up. “I know a lot of things.”

“Like what?” she whispered.

“I know your husband was the luckiest son of a bitch in the world. I know you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. And I know I should leave right now, before I do something stupid.”

Her lips opened. She sucked in her breath, her chest rising. “Like what?”

“Like this.” Sliding both hands into her hair, I crushed my mouth to hers. It was not the first kiss I’d imagined the other night in the winery—a sweet and gentle tasting of one another, a tentative meeting of wine-drenched tongues. This was a hot, searing, scotch-fueled, red-dress kiss that ate up all the oxygen in the room. My lips opened wide and slanted over hers, my tongue lashing between them. My body curved above hers, my heart thundering in my chest. Her spine bowed slightly, and I felt her breasts pressing against me. Her hands moved up my sides and around my back—then she shocked me by sliding her palms down over my ass and pulling me tighter to her. My dick was getting harder by the second, and she moaned slightly as she felt it pushing against her pelvic bone.

If there had been any doubt in my mind that she’d wanted this too, it was gone now—but did that make it right?

God, this was so fucking unfair.

I wanted to be the good guy for her, the patient gentleman, the anti-asshole. But I also really, really liked the feeling of her hair in my fingers and her tongue in my mouth and her hands grabbing my ass. It had been so long since someone wanted me this way—for no reason other than raw, unfiltered desire—and it felt so fucking good.