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)
He looks over at me. “So why keep doing it?”
I offer him a soft smile. “Because it made me happy once. It makes other people happy still. It reminds me of who I was before.”
His eyes narrow like he’s looking for pieces of that girl somewhere behind my words. “And who are you now?”
I look down at the cocoa, swirling.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “Maybe that’s why I came here.”
He stands, moves toward the window, looking out at the thick snow still burying the world.
“I missed a lot of holidays, this will be my first Christmas since I completed my service this Spring,” he says.
“Career military man, huh?”
“Yeah, twenty years.”
“What were holidays like for you?” I ask.
“Well, desert doesn’t give a shit about your calendar. Heat instead of snow. No trees, no garland. Just sand, blood, and letters. If you were lucky.”
I glance at him. “Were you lucky?”
He huffs a dry sound. “Depends on the year.”
He doesn’t say more.
He doesn’t have to.
Something inside me softens. “What did you miss the most?”
He turns his head, jaw tense. “The silence. The way snow muffles everything. The sound of someone laughing in the kitchen. Even those stupid-ass sugar cookies with red sprinkles.”
I grin. “You like cookies.”
“Don’t push it.”
I stand slowly, setting the cocoa down, walking toward him with careful steps. Not sure why—maybe because if I move too fast, the moment will vanish like breath on glass.
“I bet you never had someone throw a gingerbread house at you.”
He glances down. “You planning to?”
“Only if you insult my garland again.”
He smirks. Barely. But it’s there.
I stop beside him, close enough that our shoulders brush.
The firelight flickers across his cheek, casting the edge of his profile in gold. And I feel it again—that tight pull in my chest. Like if I let my guard down for a second, he’ll crawl in and take up permanent residence.
“You should keep it up,” he says quietly.
“What?”
He nods toward the photo. “Your parents. The lights. The traditions. The whole holiday tornado.”
“You’re not going to burn it all down when I’m not looking?”
His eyes lock on mine. Serious now. “No.”
We stand there a moment longer. Breathing in time with the storm outside. Something unseen but undeniable humming in the space between us.
Then—
He leans in.
Just a fraction.
My breath catches.
His hand lifts. Hovers near my waist. Doesn’t touch.
“Nash…” I whisper.
His voice is sandpaper and sin. “I’m not gonna kiss you. Not yet.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “Why?”
He studies me like he’s memorizing every inch. “Because when I do, you’re gonna forget every other damn kiss before it.”
I swallow.
Hard.
Then take a step back.
“I should…” I gesture toward the stack of decorations. “I promised the network this place would look like Christmas threw up.”
He nods once.
But his eyes never leave mine.
“Later then, Miss Hart.”
“Later,” I whisper.
And when I finally turn back toward the mantel, the storm howls louder—but inside, everything feels dangerously still.
Like the moment before the kiss.
The moment that changes everything.
Chapter 8
Nash
The snow’s up to my damn knees.
I stomp the slush off my boots and haul in the wood, dumping it next to the stove just as Noel prances into the room like the storm is her stage.
She’s in ridiculous Christmas leggings. Poinsetta red with little white snowflakes. Her sweater says JINGLE THIS across her chest, and I’m not a religious man, but I might’ve just been baptized in temptation.
She’s on the phone, pacing, pouting, biting her bottom lip like the Grinch just stole her Christmas tree.
“Wait—what do you mean snowed in until Friday?” she huffs. “No, you cannot do a remote interview from the Brew! This entire challenge is dependent on the transformation of the Hollis cabin—yeah, Hollis, the shirtless grump with the beard.”
She glances at me and rolls her eyes. I raise a brow. Shirtless grump?
Fair.
The second she hangs up, she groans and flops onto the sofa like someone just told her Mariah Carey lost her voice.
“They’re stuck in town,” she groans. “Roads are snowed in until the county plows through Devil’s Pass.”
“So you're stuck. With me.”
“Unfortunately.”
I set a fresh log on the fire. “Could be worse.”
She squints. “How?”
“You could be stuck with someone who likes your sequin pillows.”
She gasps, one hand to her chest. “Blasphemy. Those are vintage. They sparkle. Like joy.”
“They shed like glitter bombs in a strip club.”
Her eyes narrow. “If you weren’t so ruggedly hot when you’re insulting me, I’d throw one at your head.”
“Flattery won’t win you this battle, tinsel girl.”
She perks up like a Christmas elf on espresso. “Battle?”
I grunt.
She’s already halfway to the kitchen, pulling open her decorating bins with manic energy. “Decorating contest. You versus me. One hour. One area. And I’ll even let you pick your weapons, oh Great and Powerful Grump.”
“Winner gets what?”
She stops, tapping her chin. “Hmm… loser does dishes for the next two days.”
My lip twitches. “You’re on.”