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)
The snow starts falling harder, fat flakes catching in his hair, clinging to his flannel collar.
“You should’ve told me you were coming,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.
“I tried. You don’t answer your phone. Anyway, you would’ve told me not to.”
“Damn right I would’ve.”
“And yet…” I tip my chin up, bold even though my knees are made of jelly. “Here you are. Hanging mistletoe. Keeping me warm. Decorating cookies like it’s your calling.”
“Don’t forget saving you from the Phantom River ice concert.”
“That too.” I smirk. “You’re practically a Christmas miracle, Hollis.”
He exhales a quiet laugh. “You make everything chaos.”
“And you make everything… impossible not to want.”
That does it. His eyes flash, and suddenly, the air between us isn’t air anymore. It’s heat and tension and the invisible thread that’s been tightening between us since I first walked into his cabin and saw him in nothing but a towel.
His hand comes up, brushes snow from my cheek. Rough fingers. Gentle touch.
I lean into it before I realize I’m doing it.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
I swallow. “Say what?”
“That you want this.”
I blink up at him, vulnerable and reckless and more exposed than I’ve ever been in my life. “I want this.”
That’s all it takes.
His mouth crashes onto mine, and it’s not sweet. It’s not polite. It’s pent-up and starved and filled with weeks’ worth of biting sarcasm and almost-touches and long looks across the firelight.
His hands are in my hair, mine fisted in his flannel. He presses me back against the door, one knee slipping between mine like he needs to claim every part of me at once.
I moan against his lips, and he answers it with a growl low in his chest, one that sounds suspiciously like mine now.
The kiss deepens. Devours.
He kisses like a man who’s gone without too long. Like I’m the first color in his grayscale world.
And I kiss him back like I might not get the chance again.
Then—
Knock knock knock.
The banging on the door jerks us apart like teenagers caught behind the gym.
Nash swears, panting, forehead resting against mine. “If that’s your camera crew, I’m chucking their equipment into the river.”
I bite back a laugh, breathless and trembling. “Maybe it’s Santa. You’ve definitely been naughty.”
He pulls back, eyes blazing. “Only for you.”
Another knock. Louder this time.
I groan and slide out from beneath him, cheeks flushed, mouth still tingling. I throw open the door with the fury of a woman cockblocked by fate—and find an elderly woman holding a box of cookies and a thermos.
“Well, bless,” she says. “You must be Noel.”
I blink. “Um. Yes?”
“I’m Miriam. Nash’s neighbor. Saw the lights on, figured you two could use some Christmas cheer. And cocoa with a little somethin’ extra.”
I glance at Nash, who looks like he’d rather be struck by lightning than be part of this conversation.
Still, he steps forward, takes the box from her, nods gruffly. “Thanks, Miriam.”
She beams at me. “He’s a good man. Just needs a little… softening.”
“Oh, I plan to,” I say before I can stop myself.
Nash groans. Miriam cackles.
And just like that, the moment’s gone—but the fire between us? That’s not going out anytime soon.
Chapter 12
Nash
That kiss was a mistake.
No.
It was a goddamn revelation.
Soft and demanding. Sweet and savage. She kissed like she meant it. Like she knew exactly what she wanted and dared me to meet her in the middle.
Hell if I didn’t want to.
But then Miriam showed up with her spiked cocoa and sugar cookies and a reminder of the real world—the one where Noel Hart is just passing through, and I’ve got no business letting a woman like her get under my skin. Unless…would she really stay an be my mail-order bride…forever?
I grab the kettle and refill her mug. She’s already on her second marshmallow mountain, buried under blankets, legs curled under her on the couch.
“Still mad about Miriam?” she asks, eyes not leaving the screen as Kevin McCallister slaps aftershave on his cheeks and screams.
“You kissed me under the mistletoe.”
She peeks up at me over her cocoa, eyes sparkling. “You didn’t hate the kiss.”
I grunt. “Didn’t say I did.”
“And you’re still watching Home Alone with me.”
“Didn’t say I liked that either.”
She grins, wicked. “Liar.”
I hand her the cocoa. Our fingers brush.
The air thickens again.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” I mutter.
Her smile falters just a little. “Who says I can’t?”
The way she says it… soft, but sure. Like she’s daring me to call her bluff.
I drop down beside her on the couch, close enough to feel her warmth, far enough that I don’t do something I’ll regret. Like kiss her again. Or haul her into my lap and find out if she tastes like cocoa and temptation everywhere else.
She shifts beside me, tucking her legs up, watching me more than the screen now.
“Were you planning on spending this Christmas alone?” she asks.
I nod.