Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 26056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
My mouth quirks. Just a little. “You got a thing for cavemen, sweetheart?”
“Only the ones who grunt like they fuck.”
That does it.
That flips the switch.
My hand’s still wrapped around the bells. Hers is still raised from passing them off. Our fingers brush, barely, and I swear I feel it in my spine.
“You should be careful,” I murmur, stepping closer, closing the gap inch by inch. “You say things like that and I might have to show you exactly how I—”
A sharp knock at the door slices through the air.
We both freeze.
She exhales slowly. “Saved by the bell.”
I let out a growl as I stalk toward the door, every nerve in my body still humming.
I don’t know who the hell’s dumb enough to hike this far up Devil’s Peak in the middle of a snowstorm, but unless they’re carrying a bottle of whiskey and a shovel, they better have a damn good reason.
I yank the door open—and there’s nothing.
No one.
Just a gust of wind and snow and a cardboard box sitting on the front step.
Noel sidles up behind me. “Ooooh, a mystery. I love mysteries.”
She brushes past me to grab the box.
Of course she does.
I let the door slam shut behind her as she rips the top off and peers inside.
Her eyes light up.
“Oh my God,” she gasps. “They overnighted the garland! The good stuff!”
I groan. “There’s more?”
“There’s always more.”
She sets the box on the couch and starts unpacking ornaments like a kid on Christmas morning.
And me?
I watch her.
Watch the way her mouth twists as she concentrates. Watch the sway of her hips as she digs through decorations. Watch the way she hums again—this time to herself, quieter, like she forgot I’m still here.
I should stop this.
I should.
But I don’t.
Because if I’m honest?
Part of me wants to see what happens when the storm traps us.
When the power flickers and the fire’s all we’ve got.
When those bells end up hanging over the bed instead of the window.
Because for all her chaos and color and completely uninvited presence…
Noel Hart just turned my quiet little mountain into a powder keg.
And I’ve got a match.
***
Snow drums steady on the tin roof, wind sighing through the pines. The kind of quiet that used to feel like peace.
Not tonight.
Because she’s here—all pink lips and Christmas chaos—standing in the middle of my bedroom, hands on her hips, staring at the single bed like I’m the devil himself.
“There’s only one?” she asks, voice pitching up like she’s caught between disbelief and laughter.
“One bed,” I confirm, dragging a hand through my hair. “This ain’t the Ritz.”
Her eyes dart from the bed, then back to me. “Guess I’ll take the couch then.”
“No, ma’am.” I drop my flannel over the chair and head for the fire. “You’re not sleeping on that thing. Springs’ll bite through before midnight.”
She crosses her arms, that soft sweater pulling tight across her chest. “You’re saying you’re too much of a gentleman to let me take the couch?”
I glance over my shoulder, let my gaze drag slow enough to make her squirm. “Didn’t say I was a gentleman. Said I’m not an asshole.”
She laughs, light and sharp. “I don’t know, Nash. Jury’s still out.”
“Keep talkin’, you’ll find out.”
Her lips twitch. She likes the sparring—hell, she might live for it. I poke the fire until sparks jump and lick the air, then turn back to her. She’s standing there with her hands on her suitcase, debating something behind those big eyes.
Finally, she says it. “Fine. I’ll take the bed.”
“Good choice.”
“I’m warning you,” she says, voice lilting like a dare, “I only sleep naked.”
My grip on the poker tightens. The fire hisses. She’s watching me now, waiting for a reaction, probably expecting me to stammer or blush.
Not likely.
“Then you’ll freeze,” I say, low, steady. “Cabin gets cold at night.”
Her brows lift, like she’s trying to decide if I’m serious. “You’re impossible.”
“Not wrong.” I toss her one of my old white T-shirts from the dresser. “Here. Use that before I have to start my New Year’s confessional early.”
Her mouth opens, but she catches the shirt midair. “Oh, so chivalry does exist.”
“No,” I mutter, walking past her, “self-preservation does.”
She heads to the bathroom, door closing—mostly. A small gap remains, just wide enough to test my resolve.
The light spills out across the floor, catching the edge of her legs. I see movement, the shadow of her pulling off her sweater, the curve of her hip as she tugs at her jeans. My throat locks.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
I fail for half a second.
She bends, hair sliding forward, skin pale and soft under the amber light, and for a heartbeat I forget how to breathe. My pulse hammers so loud I’m sure she hears it.
Then the light clicks off. The door opens.
And Noel Hart—chaos in boots and a heart too bright for this world—steps out wearing my shirt and nothing else.