1. Prologue

Chapter one

Prologue

Shiloh

Thanksgiving, Two Years Earlier

I’m meeting my boyfriend’s family, and I know it’s important… so why can’t I get this feeling of dread out of the pit of my stomach?

Chris wraps his hand a bit too tightly around my wrist, ushering me through the threshold of his parents' home. "You're going to love them," he says, but it's more of a command than a promise.

"Can't wait," I reply, with a smile that feels stapled on. He doesn’t notice, or maybe he doesn’t care—I can’t tell with the way he’s always so focused on himself.

We step inside, and immediately, I'm hit by the warmth of the house, the smell of sage and roasted turkey mingling in the air. It's comforting, yet I feel like an intruder in this scene of domestic perfection.

"Shiloh, babe, don't just stand there." Chris nudges me forward into the living room.

It isn’t long before Chris’s parents realize we’re here, and his mom comes excitedly out of the living room. Chris's mother, Darla, is the epitome of elegance, her every gesture calculated and smooth—a stark contrast to my own nervous fidgeting. She beams at Chris, her eyes lingering on him with maternal pride that seems to fill the room.

"Christopher, darling," she coos before turning a measured gaze toward me. "And you must be Shiloh."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Walton," I say, extending a hand that she clasps with a cool firmness.

"Call me Darla, dear." Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she scrutinizes me, taking in my thrift store dress and the blonde hair that tumbles in messy waves down my back.

"Professor Walton and Chris have told me so much about you," I offer, trying to break the ice as I glance over at Chris’s father.

Professor Rick Walton nods, his academic demeanor softening for a moment.

"Shiloh's one of our brightest English majors," he says, but his praise sounds like a verdict waiting to be overturned in this court of familial judgment.

"English major," Darla murmurs, almost to herself, a note in her voice suggesting that perhaps I should have chosen something more lucrative, more impressive.

Before I can dwell on her comment, the front door swings open again, and in strides someone I've never seen before, yet who carries an air of familiarity. He’s taller than Chris, with a presence that seems to command the space.

His hazel eyes hold flecks of gold that catch the light, and there’s a wildness in his curly black hair that suggests he spends far less time in front of a mirror than Chris does.

"Sorry I'm late," he grumbles, his voice deep and somehow both inviting and distant. He’s got the slightest hint of an accent, but I can’t quite place it.

"Ah, that’s just fine, Liam," Darla says, the temperature in the room dropping a few degrees. “Shiloh was running late too.”

"Who is that?" I whisper under my breath, ignoring Darla’s barb toward me.

“My half-brother,” Chris rolls his eyes, and tension slices through the warm air, so thick it could rival the Thanksgiving turkey as a centerpiece.

"Didn't know you had a brother," I murmur to Chris, feeling a bit betrayed by the omission. We’ve been dating for a year; I really thought I knew all there was to know about him.

"Doesn't matter," he mutters back, giving my wrist a squeeze that I'm starting to realize isn't affectionate at all. “Like I said… he’s my half-brother. We only ever see him at Thanksgiving.”

I look up at Liam, who's now shrugging off his jacket, revealing a simple tee that hugs his torso in all the right ways. His sharp jawline is emphasized with a rough five o'clock shadow that speaks of a man unconcerned with first impressions—or any impressions at all.

"Hey," Liam says, his eyes meeting mine for a second too long before he turns to hang his coat.

"Hi," I reply, my voice small in the suddenly crowded room.

Not with other people, I guess… just Liam’s energy.

It’s like I can’t breathe now that he’s here.

"Shiloh," Chris nudges me, prompting me to shake off the haze that Liam’s sudden appearance has cast over me.

"Sorry, just zoned out for a second." I offer a tight smile, but my eyes steal another glance at Liam. He's scanning the room, a frown creasing his brow as if he's measuring the space or perhaps the time he has to endure within it.

"Let’s eat," Darla claps her hands, her eyes darting between me and Liam, assessing, judging. She hasn't taken to me since we arrived. Maybe she senses that I’m not what she envisioned for her perfect son.

We shuffle into the dining room; the table is set immaculately, each place card penned with an elegant script. My seat is between Chris and Professor Walton—who insists I call him Rick—opposite Liam, who gets stuck at the far end next to Darla. As we take our seats, the tension mounts, the air thickening with every clink of silverware on fine china.

"Pass the cranberry sauce, would you?" Darla's voice cuts through the silence, her words directed at me, but her eyes fixed on Liam, who's slouched in his chair, looking every bit the unwilling guest.

"Of course, Mrs. Walton," I say, passing the bowl along, trying to ignore the way her lips purse when she looks at me. She’s made it clear without saying much that she doesn't think I'm good enough for her son. And, by extension, her family.

I glance at Liam, catching him staring back at me, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze.

Is it sympathy? Or shared discomfort?

His presence seems to draw all my attention—a magnet pulling against my better judgment.

"Thank you, Shiloh." Darla nods as she takes the sauce, though her thanks sound more like an appraisal than gratitude.

"Everything looks lovely, Mrs. Walton," I attempt conversation, but my compliment hangs awkwardly in the air, met with a curt nod before Darla directs her attention elsewhere.

Liam shifts in his seat, his disinterest in the proceedings palpable. He picks at his food, exchanging minimal words with those around him, answering questions with monosyllables. His demeanor suggests he'd rather be anywhere but here, and I can't help but wonder why he came at all.

"More wine, anyone?" Rick offers, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Please," I say too quickly, hoping the rich red will color my cheeks less noticeably and provide a distraction from the undercurrents swirling beneath polite conversation.

"You sure you don’t want something a little stronger?” he asks, flashing me a half-smile.

“She’s fine,” Chris mutters.

But I don’t mind the question…in fact, that small exchange feels like the most genuine interaction I've had all evening. And despite the nerves, the disapproval, and the tension, I find myself grateful for Liam's presence—it's a lifeline in a sea of pretense.

The conversation inevitably turns to Chris’s classes and grades, which seem to be the only thing Darla has any interest in. He tells Darla and Rick all about his classes and who his favorite professors are… then he starts waxing philosophical about Nietzsche.

I see Liam roll his eyes. Then he sees me watching him and starts watching me. His eyes dart over to Chris for a split second before he loudly interrupts his younger brother.

“Shiloh—you said you’re getting an English degree?”

I swallow hard, looking around at Chris’s appalled family. Darla looks like she’s ready to throttle Liam, though Rick is laughing quietly.

“Um… yeah,” I say, my voice high and reedy. “English lit, actually.”

“What period?”

“The classics,” I smile. “Bront?, Austen, Braddon…I love the female authors of the nineteenth century.”

“What's your favorite novel?" Liam asks.

I blush, fully aware that I’m going to sound immature—but I don’t get the impression Liam will care. "I know it might sound cliché, but...Jane Eyre."

"Bront?," he nods with a glint of approval in his eyes. "A classic tale of strength against adversity. Not silly at all."

"Jane is resilient," I say, feeling a warmth grow inside me. "She remains true to herself, despite everything."

"Resilience is an admirable trait," Liam replies.

“And the Bront? sisters themselves were incredibly resilient,” I nod along, getting more comfortable with the subject matter. “The way they fought to do what they loved, even in a world that seemed to defy them at every step… I would love to make it my life’s work to tell their story and prop up their work. I’m really intrigued by the way they talk about class and trauma—”

“Speaking of which,” Rick jumps in, shifting his gaze from Liam to me, “what are your plans after you get your English degree, Shiloh?"

I take a small breath, steadying myself for the familiar pitch. "I'm hoping to go to grad school. My best friend and I have plans to apply to Trinity College in Dublin. We’ve dreamed of moving to Ireland for years. Eventually, I'd like to teach."

"Teach?" Darla echoes, her tone laced with a blend of skepticism and condescension. "But wouldn't you rather consider staying home, maybe start a family?" Her eyes scrutinize me as if she's assessing my worthiness for such a traditional role.

Chris chimes in before I can respond, his voice carrying an edge that cuts through the room. "She should really think about it, especially since her grades aren't great."

I sit there for a moment, stunned.

The comment stabs at my chest like an ice pick.

He knows how hard I've been working, the struggles I’ve had with my math and science classes…how I can be a straight-A student in all things literary but fail at everything else. His words hang there, heavy, and I feel a flush creeping up my neck. The room seems to shrink, and I'm suffocating under the weight of their stares and judgments.

I need to escape.

"Excuse me," I mutter, pushing back my chair so abruptly its legs scrape loudly against the polished wood floor. All eyes are on me, but I don't care.

I just need some air.

I weave past the elaborately set dining table, ignoring the murmurs behind me, and slip through the sliding doors leading to the garden. The crisp November chill bites at my skin the moment I step outside, and I hug myself tightly.

Flurries of snow begin to swirl around me, dancing in the faint light spilling out from the house. Boston winters don't play around, and I regret not grabbing my coat—but not enough to go back inside.

The cold pierces through my sweater, but it feels good somehow, grounding. The chill clears my mind and dulls the sting of Chris's words.

With each breath I take, the frigid air fills my lungs, offering a sharp relief from the stifling atmosphere I left behind. I watch as frost starts to form delicate patterns on the deck's railing, glistening under the soft glow of the porch light.

"Shiloh."

I flinch at the sound of my name but don’t turn around, convinced it’s Chris. I’m not ready to face him—not yet, with his words still echoing in my ears, a dull ache in my chest. Instead, I stare out into the darkened yard, where the shadows of bare trees sway gently with the wind.

But then, warmth spreads across my shoulders, chasing away the biting cold. It's not the warmth I expect—the kind that comes with sharp words or a strained apology. This is different. It's the weighty comfort of a coat being draped over me, the fabric heavy and protective.

The touch ignites something unfamiliar within me, a flicker of something like hope—or maybe just surprise—that sends a ripple through the numbness I've felt since dinner started.

"Thought you might need this," a voice says—a voice that isn’t Chris’s.

My heart stutters for a beat as I register the fact. Slowly, I turn around to find Liam standing there, his hands retreating from where he placed the coat around me.

His presence is unexpected, like a scene from a play where the lead actor has been suddenly replaced without notice. He stands back a bit, giving me space, yet close enough that I can see the earnestness in his eyes.

"Thanks," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. It's odd; we're practically strangers, yet his simple act of kindness feels more intimate than all the empty conversations I've had tonight.

Liam retreats and I think he’s leaving me to my thoughts—but then he comes back out, a glass of wine in his hand. "And you forgot this."

"Right," I murmur, a small smile tugging at my lips despite the coolness of the evening air. Taking the glass from him, I realize my fingers are trembling slightly. Whether from the cold or from the turmoil of emotions swirling inside me, I can't tell.

"Thank you." The words feel inadequate, but they're all I have. I tilt the glass back, letting the red wine slide down my throat—a temporary balm to soothe the sting of Chris’s cutting words and Darla's cold scrutiny. The liquid is bold and rich, a stark contrast to how drained I feel.

I blink as Liam chuckles—a low, resonant sound that seems too genuine for the facade of perfection that permeates the Walton household.

"You know," he says, his voice carrying an edge of defiance mixed with sincerity, "I hate these family gatherings too."

My eyebrows lift in surprise, and I find myself curious about this man who dares to speak his mind so freely. He's the antithesis of everything I've come to expect from Chris's world.

“Then why’d you come?”

He shrugs. “It’s the only day of the year that I see my dad and my brother… and it would break my mother’s heart if she thought I was abandoning the rest of my family. So I come here, suffer through dinner, and leave. Rinse, repeat.”

“Oh,” I say, not sure how to respond. I don’t really have a point of reference for this; my family is big, kind, and welcoming. They can be a little too much sometimes, but I love them.

"And for what it's worth," he adds, glancing toward the house before locking eyes with me again, "you’re too good for Chris."

The statement hits me like a splash of cold water, shocking and unexpectedly invigorating. For a moment, I’m speechless, unsure of how to respond to such blunt honesty.

It's not something I'm used to hearing, especially tonight when I've felt anything but good enough. But coming from Liam—this stranger who doesn’t seem to care about fitting into the pristine image of the Walton family—his declaration resonates deep within me. It's as if he sees something in me that I've been too blind or too afraid to acknowledge myself.

"Thanks," I murmur, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The cold is starting to seep through my dress, making me shiver, but there's something about Liam's presence that offers an odd kind of warmth.

He nods, looking at me with an intensity that's both unnerving and thrilling. "You're smarter than you think you are, Shiloh. I could tell just from the way you spoke about those novels back there." His voice is low and earnest as if he's sharing a secret meant only for me.

I'm taken aback by his comment, not used to such direct compliments, especially not on my intelligence.

"Really?" I ask, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks despite the chill in the air.

"Really," he confirms with a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes but still manages to stir something inside me.

Our breaths mingle in the frigid air, visible puffs of white drawing us closer in the vast, snowy expanse of Chris's parents' backyard. Flakes begin to drift in earnest down from the night sky, a gentle cascade that dusts our shoulders and hair.

I glance up at Liam, finding him already staring at me. His gaze lingers with a curiosity that feels like it's peeling back layers I didn't even realize I had. There's a charge in the air between us, an unspoken acknowledgment of something more than just shared antipathy for the dinner we escaped from.

"Snow," I say lamely, breaking the momentary silence as I watch the flakes settle on his thick, curly black hair.

"Yeah," he agrees softly, his hazel eyes never leaving mine. "First snow of the season."

There's a quiet beauty in the way the snowflakes catch in his lashes, how they seem to glitter against the backdrop of the dark evening. The cold nips at my skin, but standing this close to Liam, I can almost forget the chill, caught up instead in the warmth of the moment.

"Is there something on my face?" I ask, the words tumbling out as I can't help but notice the intensity of his gaze as it fixes not on my eyes, but slightly lower.

"Ah, just some wine right... there," Liam murmurs, his voice low and somehow intimate in the quiet of the falling snow.

He reaches out slowly… deliberately, and I feel a tiny jolt of surprise as his thumb grazes over my lower lip. There's a gentleness in his touch that contrasts sharply with the roughness of his attitude, so different now from when we sat at that dinner table.

The moment hangs suspended between us, charged with an energy that crackles louder than the soft whispers of snowflakes touching down. I find myself unable to move, caught in the depth of his hazel eyes, which seem to hold me just as firmly as his hand on my face.

And then he’s moving closer… and I’m moving closer to him…

And he kisses me.

My mind races, firing off warnings and alarms, but they're all drowned out by the sheer immediacy of this contact, this bold declaration made without a single word spoken aloud. It's a kiss that seems to both question and answer everything at once, leaving me breathless and wanting in the space where our breaths mingle and warmth blooms despite the cold around us.

My heart hammers against my chest as if trying to break free, every beat echoing the intensity of Liam's lips on mine. It's nothing like I've ever experienced with Chris—this is raw and demanding, a silent conversation where every brush of skin feels like a paragraph, every gasp a punctuation mark in a story being written in real-time.

Liam's kiss ignites a fire within me that I didn't even realize was waiting for a spark, and I'm lost in the sensation, all thoughts of propriety burned away by this undeniable connection. My body responds with a fervor that matches his, hands finding their way to his shoulders, holding on as if he’s the only solid thing in a world suddenly tilting on its axis.

But reality intrudes in the form of the door creaking open behind us, and we pull apart sharply, two magnets repelled by an unseen force. There stands Chris, framed by the warm light spilling from inside, looking confused and slightly apologetic.

"Shiloh," he says, his voice a stark contrast to the heavy silence that had wrapped around Liam and me. "Can you please come back inside? I'm sorry."

The apology hangs awkwardly between us, a pale imitation of the intensity that just moments ago had felt so consuming. I nod mutely, still reeling from the kiss, the taste of wine and something indefinably Liam lingering on my lips.

I cast a last glance at Liam, and there's an entire conversation in that fleeting connection. His eyes, dark and inscrutable, hold mine with a weight that's as intoxicating as the wine he'd brought me.

I have to get out of here.

With effort, I tear my eyes away from his and step towards Chris. The cold air suddenly sharpens, biting at my skin where Liam's warmth had just been. The snowflakes, gentle a moment ago, now seem to sting as they land on my cheeks, reminding me of the reality I must face.

"Let's go back inside," I hear myself say, my voice steadier than I feel.

Chris nods and reaches for my hand, but I tuck both my hands into the folds of the coat Liam draped over my shoulders. It's a barrier, a shield against the confusion that threatens to overwhelm me. As we walk back into the house, the sound of our footsteps muffled by the freshly fallen snow, I can't help but feel that something significant has shifted within me.

The dinner table feels like a battlefield as I resume my place, the feel of Liam's lips etched into my memory with permanent ink. My heart still races and every glance towards him sends another jolt through me.

When we leave for the night, he takes my hand in a handshake that’s a little more than friendly—and he tells me I have a bright future ahead of me.

And I can’t help but wonder if that future is with Chris… or if it’s with the man I didn’t even know existed until tonight.