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)
“Says who?”
“Says me.” She tosses off her cardigan. “Strip dare. House rule.”
“Getting bold, sunshine.”
“You’re the one with the counter fantasy.”
“True.”
She gives me a look. “Dare me.”
I look at her slowly, letting the firelight flick across every curve. The room gets hotter. Or maybe I do.
“Take off your shirt.”
She peels it off without hesitation. Red lace bra. Snowflake charm at the center. Designed to kill men like me.
Her nipples pebble in the firelight.
“Cold in here?” I ask.
“Please. You’ve been staring like that fire’s not even lit.”
I chuckle darkly and spin the mistletoe again.
It lands on her.
“Truth or dare?” she asks, voice like velvet.
“Dare.”
Her smile turns wicked. “Take off your shirt.”
I tug it over my head. She bites her lip.
“You’re so…built,” she mutters.
“Didn’t expect you to notice.”
“Oh, I noticed.”
Silence hums between us, stretching and twisting. I want to pull her into my lap. Want to press her to the floor and kiss her until she forgets why she came here in the first place.
She spins the bottle again.
“Truth or dare?” she whispers when it lands on me.
“Truth.”
She leans in. “What’s stopping you from kissing me?”
I don’t answer right away.
Because the truth is simple: nothing. Nothing but every damn warning bell in my head that says if I start, I won’t stop.
But I say, “Because I like the way you look at me when you’re still wondering if I will.”
Her lips part.
And this time, she doesn’t move.
I do.
I brush her hair from her face. Let my thumb linger at her cheekbone. Her breath shudders.
I dip my head—slow, torturous—until our lips are almost touching.
Then stop.
She groans.
“You’re an asshole.”
“I know.”
“Do it.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I kiss you now, Noel…” I meet her eyes, “I’m not pulling back.”
She swallows.
I can feel her heartbeat.
“We’ve got days stuck in this cabin,” I say. “And I want you begging by the end of them.”
She narrows her eyes. “You think you’re that good?”
“I know I am.”
She smirks, tossing her bra at me before reaching for the blanket and pulling it around herself.
“Then earn it, mountain man.”
I growl. Low. Dangerous.
And walk straight to the kitchen before I forget how to think.
She laughs softly behind me.
This game’s far from over.
And I’m not planning on losing.
Chapter 7
Noel
Snow curls against the windows like it’s trying to break in.
The wind moans low, and the coffee pot sputters behind me, filling the cabin with the warm scent of morning. I’m curled on the armchair in one of Nash’s old flannel shirts—buttoned just enough not to be scandalous, but short enough to be… suggestive.
Not on purpose.
Okay, maybe a little.
He hasn’t said anything yet.
But he’s been watching me like a man memorizing his favorite mistake.
Nash stands at the stove now, shirtless again, jeans low on his hips, stirring cocoa like it’s his goddamn military mission. His shoulders roll, taut and scarred and maddeningly sculpted, and when he reaches for the cinnamon shaker—Lord—I almost drop the photo frame in my hand.
It’s the only one I brought. Just a little silver ornament-shaped frame with a picture of my mom and dad in front of our old house in Pasadena, Christmas lights glowing behind them. My dad had a Santa hat on. My mom was trying to pull it off while laughing. I took it the year before they died.
It’s dumb, but I always set it somewhere. Wherever I’m decorating.
I slip it onto the mantel between a ceramic reindeer and a pine garland Nash didn’t notice I snuck up there last night.
Or he pretended not to.
“Is that your family?” he asks.
His voice is deep and quiet, warm as the stove. I jump a little. I didn’t realize he’d moved closer. His footsteps were silent for a man who walks like he could stomp through drywall.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “My parents.”
He sets a mug down next to me. Cocoa with whipped cream, cinnamon, and one of those chocolate-covered spoons I brought from the city. The man grumbles about everything, but apparently still uses my cocoa spoons.
“They look happy,” he says.
“They were.” I sip, letting the heat work through the chill in my chest. “They died in a car accident two years ago. Drunk driver. Christmas Eve.”
His jaw flexes. “Damn.”
“I was supposed to go home that night, but I got stuck at a client’s cocktail party. Stayed too late. By the time I got the call… they were already gone.”
Silence stretches. Heavy. Not uncomfortable—just full.
“I’m sorry, Noel.”
“I know.” I glance at him. “You ever lose anyone?”
His gaze shifts to the fire.
“A few.”
I nod, and for a minute we both just… sit.
The cocoa warms my hands. The storm wails beyond the window, but in here, there’s nothing but fire crackle and the thump of his fingers against the ceramic mug.
“I used to think holidays were everything,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “The lights, the music, the cookies, the traditions. Now… sometimes it just hurts.”