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)
Sandra shouts, “CUT—wait, no—stay on it—this is good TV, people! Keep rolling!”
Someone whistles. Someone else shouts “MARRIED BEFORE NEW YEAR’S!”
And I don’t even care.
Because for the first time in a long goddamn time…
I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
With her.
Epilogue
Noel
One Year Later
I swear to peppermint fudge, if this man touches my stomach one more time, I’m going to strangle him with a garland strand.
“Nash,” I snap, swatting his hand away for the third time this morning, “stop poking the belly like it’s a freaking snow globe.”
He doesn't flinch. Just stares down at me like I’m the one who’s out of line.
“I like when it kicks.”
“It’s not kicking. It’s twisting my bladder into a balloon animal.”
He grins, the cocky kind that used to piss me off. Now? It just makes me want to climb him like a tree. Or kill him. Depends on the minute.
“You were fine with me poking your belly last night.”
“That was different. That was foreplay.”
“This is family bonding.”
“This is you being handsy with a hormonal woman who hasn’t seen her feet in three weeks and just wants to finish booking the Christmas packages before I give birth in the mudroom.”
He shrugs. “Could be worse places.”
“I will end you.”
But I don’t really mean it. Because truth is—this life? This messy, snowed-in, pine-scented, cocoa-drenched life?
It’s exactly what I always wanted. We were married by New Year’s, just one month after we won the competition, and we used some of the money to have a winter wedding on the Phantom River. It was perfect. Right out of a fairytale. And now we are about to become three.
Nash brings the handmade sign in from how workshop in the garage.
Welcome to Hollis & Hearth.
Rustic-modern A-frame cabins. Handcrafted wood furniture. Holiday decor you can take home with you. Romance baked right into the floorboards.
Nash handles the construction. I handle the aesthetics. And the bookings. And the social media. And the guest welcome baskets.
Okay, I handle everything except swinging the axe and muttering about insulation like it personally offended you.
We’ve got six cabins along the river now—each one themed, decorated, and ready for a Christmas card photoshoot. I even named them. Mistletoe Manor. Snowfall Suite. The Naughty Nook. (Nash still rolls his eyes at that one.)
Couples book months in advance for their winter escape.
Because it’s Devil’s Peak.
Because it’s us.
Because every cabin has a mini tree, a bottle of spiked cider, and a curated playlist with just enough Mariah Carey to make it festive, not criminal.
And now, we’ve got a baby on the way. Nash’s already chopping extra firewood like the kid’s going to eat it. I caught him last night building a cradle out of reclaimed oak like some kind of lumberjack nesting instinct kicked in.
He won’t admit it, of course. He’ll just say, “Got bored. Had a few extra planks lying around.”
But I know the truth.
The big, gruff bastard is excited.
And scared.
And annoyingly obsessed with my belly.
“You named the new cabin yet?” he asks, rubbing cocoa out of his beard like it’s normal to walk around shirtless in December.
I glance up from my laptop. “I was thinking ‘Winter’s Kiss.’”
He snorts. “Sounds like a perfume.”
“It’s romantic.”
“It’s a cabin.”
“It’s a brand, Nash. Get with the aesthetic.”
He grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “you’re the aesthetic” and moves to stoke the fire. The baby kicks again, hard, and I wince.
“Little menace,” I mutter, rubbing my stomach.
Nash’s eyes flick to me. Soft now. Serious.
“You okay?”
I nod.
But something in his face shifts.
He kneels in front of me. Hands on my thighs. Chin on my belly like he’s listening for Morse code.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough, quiet. “You’re doing amazing.”
I blink.
Tears threaten.
I blame the hormones. Or the firelight. Or the stupid, wonderful man who somehow made me fall headfirst into this insane, snow-globe life.
“You’re not allowed to be sweet right now,” I sniff, swiping at my eyes. “I’m mad at you.”
“For what?”
“For being smug. And sexy. And smug about being sexy.”
He smirks. “You forgot handsy.”
“I didn’t forget. I just didn’t want to encourage it.”
Too late. He’s already sliding one palm beneath my sweater.
I slap it away.
“Nash. The cookies. The camera crew’s coming for the New Year’s shoot.”
“They’ll survive.”
“I won’t.”
“Then sit back, snowflake. I’ll bake.”
“You can’t bake.”
“I’ll improvise.”
“You tried to use sawdust as cinnamon last time.”
“One time.”
I laugh. Loud and shameless.
He grins like it’s the only sound that matters.
We’re loud. We’re chaotic.
We still argue about tinsel.
He still insists on chopping wood shirtless because “it drives bookings.”
We kiss in the pantry.
We dance in the snow.
We decorate with enough lights to be visible from orbit.
We’re not perfect.
But hell if we aren’t happy.
I cross the kitchen to him and smile, running my fingertips down the chiseled planes of his torso. He’s a work of art. I’ve never seen a man so defined, so drop-dead sexy.
His hand curls around my neck, his tongue nudging past my lips as I feel his cock pressing between my thighs. “Missed you today.”