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)
This isn’t just some city girl snowed into my cabin anymore.
This is the one woman who’s gonna wreck me.
And maybe…I’ll let her.
Chapter 3
Noel
I’ve seen a lot of wet men in my life. Catalog shoots. Calendar auditions. One very regrettable spring break in Cabo.
But nothing—and I mean nothing— compares to a pissed-off mountain man wrapped in a towel, dripping water onto the warped hardwood floor of his hunting cabin first thing in the morning, while glaring at me like I just insulted his mother.
“Still staring?” Nash grunts, dragging a flannel shirt over those wide, wet shoulders.
I jerk my eyes up. Or try to. They seem determined to stay glued to the drops sliding down his chest, the way they disappear into the sharp V of muscle just below his navel.
“That’s funny,” I say, clearing my throat and adjusting my camera bag strap like it might protect me. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
His eyes narrow, jaw ticking under that peppered beard. “You make a habit of walking into strange men’s houses uninvited and then bossing them around with tinsel and a smile?”
I flash my best pageant smile. “Only when I’m their bride.”
He blinks. Slowly. Like he’s trying to erase me with his eyelids.
“Don’t push me, tinsel girl.”
“Oh, I’m not pushing. I’m proposing.”
I drop the box of glitter-dusted tinsel and garland at my feet and thrust a very official-looking envelope at him. It’s the agreement for Mountain Makeovers: Holiday Edition, complete with the logo, my photo, and a brief summary of the challenge: transform the cabin into a winter wonderland and win a quarter mil.
I even circled the prize money in red ink. Hearts included.
His eyes flick over the document, then back to me. Flat. “This supposed to impress me?”
“No,” I say, stepping closer and planting myself right in front of him, toe to toe. “It’s supposed to convince you to let me stay here, decorate the hell out of this sad little taxidermy nest of yours, and win the contest. I told you I’ll split the prize. Fifty-fifty. Then you’ll never see me again.”
A beat of silence.
His eyes drop to my lips, then lower—to the exposed skin where my coat has slipped open, revealing a cherry-red sweater with the words Sleigh All Day in silver sequins. His mouth twitches. Not a smile. More like a silent groan.
“Told you you can stay ’til the storm passes.”
“I need longer than that.”
“How long?” he practically growls.
“A week, maybe ten days.”
Silence scented with woodsmoke and cinnamon breathes between us.
“Why me?” he finally mutters.
“You’re the one that ran a mail-order bride ad. And when the bartender at The Devil’s Brew said you were a reclusive Grinch with a face for TV and a cabin with excellent ‘rustic charm’ I knew I’d made the right choice.” I pause. “Also because you live so far out, none of the other contestants would be willing to drive up here.”
“Smart.”
“But not me,” I add brightly. “I’ve got snow tires and a dream. Anyway—about that ad for a bride—I had the good fortune of stumbling across it so I figure the timing is perfect.”
He exhales hard. Turns toward the fireplace. His back—that back—is broad and tense beneath his half-buttoned shirt. I could hang stockings from those shoulder blades.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea. I mean, only one bed for the next week. That’s a recipe for disaster.”
I sigh. “Is it? Guess I’ll just have to tell the judges how Nash Hollis, local mountain man and designated hermit, refused to help a hard-working, determined woman achieve her lifelong dream.”
He turns slowly, like a bear preparing to maul.
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“Just a little,” I chirp.
“You’re insane.”
“Possibly.”
Another long stare-down. His eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate. He’s calculating. Weighing options. Probably considering if he can chop firewood while I’m here without murdering me with an axe on accident.
I fold my arms across my chest, trying not to show how fast my heart is hammering. Not from fear. From proximity. From the way this man looks at me like I’m a category five migraine with good legs.
He crosses the room in two strides. Stops close. Too close.
“You really gonna decorate this place? With... glitter and shit?”
“Twinkle lights. Wreaths. A fake snow machine, if I can get the generator to handle it.”
“You think I’m letting a woman in combat boots and lip gloss turn my cabin into a damn Macy’s window display?”
“Actually,” I murmur, leaning up on my toes, “I think you’re going to love it.”
His nostrils flare. I can feel the heat rolling off him, a furnace of irritation and something darker. Something that hums between us like a live wire.
He glares.
I grin.
By the time I’ve unloaded the rest of my props and gear, the cabin looks a little more like a tornado blew through Hobby Lobby. I unpack fake snow blankets, a 4-foot pre-lit tree, strings of multicolored lights, ribbon, and about six hundred glittery ornaments.