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)
BANG BANG BANG.
We both freeze.
The front door rattles like someone’s trying to punch it down.
“For the love of—” Nash bites off the curse, scowling as he storms over to the door. “If it’s those damn raccoons again—”
He throws it open.
It’s not a raccoon.
It’s a woman. Mid-sixties. Cheeks pink from the cold. Drenched in snow and carrying a tray of what looks like canned cranberry Jell-O molded into a Santa shape.
“Hi there, Nash!” she chirps, peering around him and spotting me still on the couch, hair powdered in sugar, shirt slightly askew.
Her brows shoot up.
“Oh my.”
“Ms. Dottie,” Nash says through clenched teeth. “It’s… not a good time.”
“Oh, don’t be silly! I was just in the neighborhood and figured I’d drop off a little something sweet for you before the next big storm hits tonight!” She eyes me again. “But I can see you already found that.”
I nearly choke.
Nash groans.
I sit up, cheeks flaming. “Hi, I’m—uh—Noel.”
Dottie’s grin is positively wicked. “Yes, dear. I heard all about you down at The Devil’s Brew. So you’re the… bride?”
I open my mouth. Close it. “Temporarily?”
She winks. “Well, I just love holiday romances.”
“Not a romance,” Nash grumbles.
“I’m rooting for you anyway,” Dottie says. “You know where to find me if you need a wedding officiant. I’ve got a license. And a karaoke machine.”
She disappears into the night with a flurry of snowflakes and bad timing, leaving us staring at the door she just closed behind her.
Nash doesn’t speak.
He just exhales and mutters, “We were so close.”
My heartbeat hasn’t slowed. My mouth still tingles.
I glance at him, then down at the tray of Santa-shaped Jell-O in his hands. “Your girlfriend’s intense.”
“That woman once proposed during a turkey raffle after too much cocoa and Kahlua.”
I snort. “Kinky.”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“No promises.”
He looks at me again. And this time, it’s not teasing.
It’s loaded.
And dangerous.
And says next time, no one’s interrupting.
But for now… I just grab another handful of frosting, swipe it across my lips, and lick it off slowly.
He growls again.
And I grin.
This war’s only getting started.
Chapter 6
Nash
The storm howls like it’s got a personal grudge against my roof.
Wind slaps the windows. Ice pelts the glass. The wood stove crackles like it’s trying to be louder than Noel’s damn Christmas playlist that keeps bouncing between sultry jazz and some pop singer moaning about mistletoe.
I could shut it off. Should.
But she’s sitting on the floor in front of the fire, legs tucked under her in candy cane-striped socks, grinning like she doesn’t even notice the blizzard outside—or that she’s turned my cabin into Santa’s bachelor pad.
And I… can’t stop looking at her.
Worse, I don’t want to.
She tilts her head, mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “You look like you’re planning an escape.”
“I was.”
Her smile widens. “Let me guess—through the chimney?”
“No, I was gonna toss you in it.”
“Please. You’d miss me within the hour.”
“You think highly of yourself.”
She shrugs. “I do.”
I grunt and take another sip of whiskey, letting it burn the tension sitting low in my gut.
It doesn’t help.
She picks up a wine bottle and pours herself another glass. I watch the red swirl. Watch her lips wrap around the rim. Watch her tongue flick out to catch a drop.
Fuck.
“You gonna keep staring,” she says lightly, “or do you wanna play?”
“Play what? You got a game in that bag of yours?”
“You know I do.” She reaches into her stupid sequined purse and pulls out… a sprig of mistletoe tied to a spinner made from a wine bottle.
I blink.
“Mistletoe roulette,” she says, like it’s normal.
“What the hell is that?”
“Like spin the bottle. But whoever it lands on has to kiss the other. Or answer a truth.”
“That’s not how spin the bottle works.”
She spins it before I can argue more.
The mistletoe spins wildly on the wood floor before slowing… and stopping on me.
I raise a brow. “Well, go on then. Ask your question.”
“Truth or kiss?”
“Kiss isn’t a punishment.”
She scoots closer. “Then maybe I should choose dare next time.”
Her tone is pure sin.
But I don’t move when she leans in, not until her lips are so close I can feel her breath. Smells like cinnamon and cocoa. Dangerous.
Then—she pulls back, smirking. “Truth. What’s the dirtiest thought you’ve had about me since I got here?”
I stare at her.
She lifts her glass. “Tick-tock.”
“I’m debating whether to answer,” I mutter.
“You agreed to play.”
“I never did.”
“Coward.”
“Brat.”
I drain my whiskey.
Then lean forward, low and steady. “You sure you wanna know?”
Her eyes widen, just a little.
I lean in closer. Our noses nearly touch. “I thought about bending you over the counter that first night. When you stormed in here all lips and attitude. Wanted to hear you moan while you cursed me out.”
Her breath hitches.
And for a second, the air snaps like a livewire between us.
But she blinks and then—spins the mistletoe again.
This time it lands between us.
She grins. “Tie. That means dare.”