Chapter 147 You Changed My Hot Chocolate

Chapter 147 You Changed My Hot Chocolate
The Hearst jet touched down outside Manhattan in the late afternoon, its wheels meeting the runway with barely more than a muted thump beneath Amelia’s feet.

She looked up from the tablet resting across her lap, blinking as though the landing had surprised her. Outside the oval window, the winter sky had already begun surrendering its light, streaks of pale gold and gray stretching over the runway while the city waited beyond it.

Christmas was officially behind them.

Almost.

Amelia wasn’t quite ready to let it go.

She leaned back into the cream leather seat and rested one hand absently over her tummy. The last two days had been exactly what she hadn’t realized she needed. Family. Too much food. Laughter that lasted until her cheeks hurt. Matching pajamas, Christmas music, gifts, snow, and enough sentimental moments to make even Charles Hearst suspiciously interested in clearing his throat.

And, miraculously, very little nausea.

Bryson noticed her hand immediately.

He had been reviewing something on his phone from the seat beside her, but the device disappeared onto the table between them as his attention shifted completely to her.

“How are you feeling?”

Amelia smiled. “Good.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

She laughed. “I mean it.”

“You said that yesterday before you fell asleep in the middle of a conversation.”

“I was tired. Pregnant women are allowed to be tired.”

Bryson reached across the space between them and placed his hand over hers. “Pregnant women are also notorious liars when they think their husbands are worrying too much.”

“According to whom?”

“Me.”

“That seems scientifically questionable.”

“I stand by my research.”

Amelia shook her head, but her smile remained as Bryson's palm moved slowly over the gentle curve of her stomach. The gesture had become almost instinctive for him. Sometimes she wondered whether he even realized he did it anymore. If she stood beside him, his hand eventually found her stomach. If they were lying in bed, he touched her there. In the car, on the couch, waiting for an elevator, walking through the house—his fingers inevitably drifted toward the tiny life they had created.

She covered his hand with hers.

“The morning sickness really has gotten better,” he said. “A lot better.”

“Thank God.” Amelia tipped her head back against the seat. “I was terrified I was going to spend Christmas introducing myself to every bathroom in your parents’ house.”

Bryson laughed.

“I’m serious. Your mother would be showing everyone the heirloom necklace while I was upstairs hugging a toilet.”

“You would've looked beautiful doing it.”

Amelia turned her head slowly.

Bryson's expression remained completely serious.

“You know,” she said, “sometimes I genuinely can't tell whether you're romantic or ridiculous.”

“Both can be true.”

“They definitely are.”

His thumb moved gently beneath her sweater. “You made it through the entire holiday without getting sick.”

“I did.” Her smile softened. “And I’m ridiculously grateful for it. I actually got to enjoy Christmas instead of worrying every five minutes that something I smelled was going to send me running.”

“You ate pretty well too.”

“Your mother and mine were feeding me like they were preparing me for hibernation.”

“You didn't exactly resist.”

“Why would I? Your mother makes dangerous macaroni and cheese.”

Bryson grinned. “I'll tell her you said that.”

“Don't. She'll start sending pans of it to Manhattan.”

“I fail to see the problem.”

“The problem is I will eat them.”

His laugh was warm as he leaned over and kissed her temple. Amelia closed her eyes briefly, letting herself settle into him.

There was something strange about returning to the city this time.

The Hamptons had been an escape, but Manhattan was home. Their life was there. Her work. His company. Their people. Lila's gallery opening in two days. Their wedding in a little over two weeks.

Their baby.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, they had somehow built a household filled with people Amelia had stopped thinking of merely as employees.

She reached for her phone.

Bryson glanced down. “What are you doing?”

“Letting everyone know we're almost home.”

“They know we're coming.”

“They don't know our plan.”

“Our plan?”

Amelia gave him a look. “Yes, Bryson. Some of us communicate.”

“I communicate.”

“You issue directives.”

“Efficiently.”

“Exactly.”

She opened the house app, selected the household message function, and began typing.

Amelia: We just landed! We should be home soon. Bryson and I are going upstairs to shower and change first, so give us about an hour after we arrive. Then everybody downstairs. Hot chocolate and coffee. No excuses. Christmas isn't over yet. ❤️

She hit send.

Bryson stared at the message.

“What?”

“You just summoned my entire household for hot chocolate.”

“Our household.”

Something in his expression changed.

It was subtle, but Amelia caught it.

“Our household,” he repeated.

She smiled. “Yes.”

His hand tightened gently around hers.

Replies began appearing almost immediately.

Samantha: Welcome home, Mrs. Hearst! ❤️

Ethan: Does “no excuses” apply to people who don't drink hot chocolate?

Cole: Yes. Don't embarrass us.

Bruce: Coffee exists for a reason.

Amelia gasped.

Bryson laughed before she could even speak.

She typed quickly.

Amelia: Bruce, I know that wasn't disrespect toward hot chocolate I just read.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Bruce: I would never disrespect anything you currently have a craving for, Mrs. Hearst.

Amelia narrowed her eyes at the screen.

“That was calculated.”

“Very.”

“Pregnancy has made him bold.”

“Bruce was bold before you were pregnant.”

A final message appeared.

Marcus: Everything will be ready. Travel safely, Mrs. Hearst.

Amelia smiled and locked the phone.

By the time they reached the penthouse, evening had settled fully over Manhattan. The private elevator opened directly into the familiar warmth of home, and Amelia stepped out with Bryson beside her, immediately inhaling the faint mixture of polished wood, winter greenery, and whatever Bruce had already started preparing somewhere deeper inside.

Their luggage disappeared almost before Amelia noticed who had taken it.

She barely had time to remove her coat before Bryson's hand settled at her back.

“Upstairs.”

She glanced at him. “Bossy.”

“You've been traveling.”

“For forty minutes.”

“And you're tired.”

“I'm not.”

Bryson looked at her.

Amelia sighed. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

“I know.”

“You're becoming annoyingly good at this husband thing.”

“Becoming?”

She rolled her eyes and allowed him to guide her toward the stairs.

An hour later, they came back down together.

Amelia had traded her travel clothes for a soft knit lounge set, comfortable and warm, while Bryson wore dark lounge pants and a lightweight sweater. Her hair, freshly washed, still held some of yesterday's straightness through the lengths despite the dampness near her roots, leaving it somewhere between sleek and its natural texture.

The atmosphere downstairs had changed completely.

Everyone was there.

Samantha sat near one end of the sectional talking with Ethan and Cole. Evan stood near the fireplace with Marcus, while Bruce moved between the kitchen and living room with the resigned efficiency of a man who had somehow been placed in charge of a Christmas beverage service against his will.

Martina stood near the opposite couch.

Beside her was Maya.

Amelia recognized the sixteen-year-old immediately from the photographs Martina had shown her, but she had barely taken two steps into the room before Maya saw them.

The teenager's entire expression changed.

“Maya,” Martina began, apparently recognizing the look before Amelia did.

Too late.

Maya crossed the space quickly and wrapped her arms around Amelia.

Amelia startled, but Bryson was directly beside her, his hand instinctively shifting from her back as Maya reached her. He relaxed almost immediately when he realized what was happening.

“Thank you,” Maya whispered, hugging Amelia tightly. “Seriously. Thank you.”

The emotion in the teenager's voice erased Amelia's surprise.

Her arms closed around her.

“You're welcome.”

Maya pulled away and looked toward Bryson. “You too, Mr. Hearst. Thank you for letting us stay here and... everything.”

Bryson's expression softened. “You're welcome, Maya.”

“Maya.” Martina looked thoroughly embarrassed. “You cannot just walk up and grab people like that.”

“I hugged her.”

“Without asking.”

Maya glanced at Amelia and winced. “Okay. Yeah. Sorry, Mrs. Hearst. I should've asked.”

“It's alright.”

“No, she's been told,” Martina said. “I'm sorry. I keep telling her that she has to respect people's space.”

“And you're right.” Amelia looked at Maya. “Your sister is absolutely right.”

Maya shot Martina a reluctant glance.

“But,” Amelia continued, smiling, “as far as I'm concerned, you can have a hug whenever you want one.”

Maya looked back at her. “For real?”

“For real.”

The teenager hesitated for approximately two seconds.

“Can I have another one?”

Amelia laughed. “Yes.”

This time Amelia opened her arms first, and Maya stepped into them.

When they separated, Maya glanced toward Bryson. “I'm guessing that offer doesn't extend to you.”

“Definitely not.”

Maya nodded solemnly. “Yeah. You look like a handshake person.”

Bryson extended his hand. “Excellent judgment.”

Maya shook it, fighting a smile.

Amelia stared at her husband. “You are ridiculous.”

“Boundaries, sweetheart.”

Before she could answer, Bruce emerged from the kitchen carrying a large tray crowded with mugs.

“Coffee,” he announced, “and enough hot chocolate to satisfy Mrs. Hearst's campaign against adulthood.”

Amelia turned slowly.

“Excuse me?”

Bruce began distributing mugs as though he hadn't heard her.

Amelia looked at Maya. “Maya.”

The teenager immediately straightened.

“I need an impartial opinion. Is drinking hot chocolate on December twenty-sixth ridiculous?”

Maya looked toward Bruce.

Her expression transformed into mock offense.

She crossed her arms. “Of course not.”

“Thank you.”

“It's literally the day after Christmas,” Maya continued. “December is hot-chocolate season. You don't just wake up on the twenty-sixth and suddenly start drinking... water.”

Amelia pointed toward her. “Exactly.”

“Water?” Bruce repeated.

Maya shrugged. “I panicked. It was the first boring drink I thought of.”

Even Marcus laughed.

Bruce shook his head. “Wonderful. Mrs. Hearst has recruited a teenager.”

“I like her,” Amelia announced.

“You liked her before she agreed with you.”

“I like her more now.”

Bryson slipped an arm around Amelia's waist and pulled her gently against his side. “You're wasting your time, Bruce.”

Bruce gave him a dry look. “You're hardly an impartial observer, Mr. Hearst.”

“Never claimed to be.”

Bruce finally handed Amelia her mug.

She accepted it suspiciously.

“Not too hot,” he told her before she could drink. “Extra whipped cream, cinnamon, and less sugar than you asked for.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You changed my hot chocolate?”

“You're pregnant.”

“That does not mean my taste buds require adult supervision.”

“Someone in this house has to tell you no occasionally.”

Amelia turned toward Bryson.

He immediately lifted his coffee. “Don't involve me.”

“Coward.”

“Alive coward.”

Maya laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth.

Amelia took a sip.

She paused.

Bruce waited.

She took another.

“Well?” he asked.

Amelia frowned at him. “It's perfect.”

“I know.”

“I still don't appreciate the unauthorized modification.”

“I'll document your complaint.”

By then, everyone was laughing, and Amelia realized how much she had missed this.

Not the penthouse.

Them.

“Alright.” She carried her mug toward the sectional. “Everybody sit down. Before we do gifts, I want to hear about Christmas.”

Bruce stopped.

“Mrs. Hearst—”

“Sit, Bruce.”

His brows lifted.

Bryson hid his smile behind his coffee.

Eventually, even Bruce joined them.

They settled around the living room, abandoning the structure that normally separated employer from employee. Marcus and Evan took chairs near the sectional while Cole and Ethan claimed the floor near the coffee table. Samantha tucked herself into one end of the couch. Martina sat beside Maya, and Bruce chose an armchair that allowed him to pretend he hadn't voluntarily joined anything.

Amelia curled beside Bryson, one leg tucked beneath her while he rested his arm along the back of the sofa behind her.

Nobody reached for the gifts.

Not yet.

Amelia wanted to hear about them first.

Samantha told them about spending Christmas with her daughter and grandchildren, including a disastrous attempt at gingerbread houses that had ended with her youngest grandson eating half the decorations before they made it onto the roof. Amelia asked their ages, remembered which grandchild had started preschool, and wanted to know whether the oldest still wanted the keyboard Samantha had mentioned weeks earlier.

Ethan had gone home to his mother's house, where his siblings had apparently turned Christmas dinner into an argument over a card game.

“It was Uno,” he explained defensively.

Amelia stared at him. “People have ended relationships over Uno.”

“Thank you.”

Cole shook his head. “You drew four on your own mother.”

“She was winning.”

“She raised you.”

“She also taught me not to quit.”

Amelia nearly spilled her hot chocolate laughing.

Cole had spent Christmas with his father's side of the family in Queens, where he'd eaten enough food to announce that he intended to fast until New Year's. Evan had divided his holiday between his parents and his sister's family and confessed that his four-year-old nephew had received a drum set from someone Evan now considered a personal enemy.

Through all of it, Bryson remained mostly quiet.

He listened. He asked questions occasionally. He laughed.

But mostly, he watched Amelia.

She remembered things.

That was what struck him.

Not merely names. Details. Samantha's grandson. Ethan's mother. Evan's nephew. She followed stories instead of waiting for them to end. When someone mentioned something she'd heard before, she connected it without effort.

Eventually Amelia looked toward Martina.

“And how was Uncle Reggie's place? You said you and Maya were spending Christmas with him.”

Martina smiled. “It was good. Small, but good.”

“How's he doing?”

“About the same. Some days are better than others.”

Maya leaned forward. “He yelled at Martina for buying Christmas dinner.”

“I did not buy Christmas dinner,” Martina protested. “I bought the ingredients.”

“With what money did the ingredients become dinner?”

“Maya.”

Amelia grinned.

Martina sighed. “Uncle Reggie doesn't like us spending money on him.”

“He had thirty-seven dollars,” Maya supplied.

“Maya!”

“What? He did.”

Bryson lowered his coffee, laughing.

Martina shook her head. “He's always been that way. He doesn't have much, but if he has twenty dollars and thinks we need ten, he'll try to give us fifteen.”

The humor in Amelia's face softened.

“You told me he was injured in the military.”

Martina nodded. “Yeah. He has PTSD too. Crowds are difficult. Noise. Too many people around for too long. Some days he doesn't leave the trailer at all.”

“He's nice, though,” Maya added quickly. “Like, really nice. He's just... Uncle Reggie.”

“He used to help us whenever he could,” Martina continued. “Especially after Mom died. Groceries sometimes. Gas. School things for Maya. But eventually I started helping him more than he could help us. A bill here. Food there.”

Amelia understood without needing the rest explained.

“He would've taken you both.”

“In a heartbeat,” Martina said. “That's the problem. He would've tried even though he couldn't afford it, and it wouldn't have been healthy for Maya or for him.”

Maya nodded. “His trailer barely has room for him.”

“So you cooked?” Amelia asked.

“All of it,” Maya answered.

“Almost all of it.”

Maya looked at her sister. “He opened the cranberry sauce.”

The room dissolved into laughter again.

Eventually the stories slowed, mugs were refilled, and the warmth in the room settled into something comfortable.