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)
She sniffs the collar and makes a noise that’s equal parts mockery and something else. Something… huskier.
“Well, I like how you smell.”
I stop in front of her. Close enough to feel the heat from the stove. From her.
“You think this is a game?” I murmur.
“Everything’s a game,” she says. “You just hate that I’m winning.”
My hand fists the fabric at her waist, tugging her toward me. Her breath hitches.
“You want to win?” I growl.
She nods once, bold and breathless.
“Then tell me to stop.”
I lower my mouth to her ear, barely brushing the skin with my lips.
“Tell me to stop thinking about how soft you looked wrapped in that damn blanket last night. Tell me to stop wondering how you taste. Stop imagining how you'd sound when I push you up against that stupid glittery tree and make you moan.”
She trembles.
But she doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
I pull back, just enough to see her face.
Flushed. Eyes wide. Lips parted.
“Noel,” I rasp.
“Yes?”
I study her for a beat. She’s trying to stay calm. Collected. Like she’s not seconds from combusting.
“You keep poking the bear, tinsel girl,” I say, voice dropping to a low rumble. “Eventually, he bites.”
“Maybe I want to be bitten.”
Fuck.
Every muscle in my body tenses.
I step back.
If I don’t, I’m going to pin her to the wall and do everything I’ve been imagining since the moment she burst into my cabin like a fever dream with boots and a plan.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because she’s trouble. Holiday-wrapped, sugar-dusted, cinnamon-scented trouble.
And I don’t need to get addicted to something I can’t keep. I know I listed the ad for the mail-order bride, but I’ve regretted that impulsive decision every moment since. That’s the reason I haven’t been answering phone calls or checking messages, never thought a woman would be brazen enough to show up on my doorstep like a stray dog with a curvy body built for sin.
“You should go to bed,” I say tightly. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Decorating your front porch?” she quips.
“Trying to survive me.”
She smiles like that’s exactly what she wants.
Then turns and walks away—slowly—hips swaying beneath my shirt, like she’s daring me to follow.
I don’t.
Not tonight.
But soon.
Soon, she’s going to find out what happens when you push too hard.
And I’m going to find out if I can survive the chaos she brings.
Chapter 5
Noel
“Let me get this straight…” I say later that night as I slide a baking sheet into Nash Hollis’s ancient oven and smirk at the man currently glaring at the pile of flour on the counter like it personally offended him. “You don’t know how to make cookies?”
“I know how to eat cookies,” he mutters, arms crossed, that mountain of a chest stretching his flannel until I’m questioning the integrity of the buttons.
“You don’t say.” I lick a smear of chocolate from my finger just to watch his jaw tick.
“Baking’s not exactly a survival skill.”
“Well, good thing you’ve got me. I’ve got enough sugar to kill a horse and questionable taste in frosting colors. What could go wrong?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just narrows his eyes like he’s sizing up the enemy—which, judging by the flour now coating his beard, might be the hand mixer.
I snort.
“You know,” I say, turning toward the counter, “you could try to have fun.”
“I am having fun,” he deadpans.
“Right. You look absolutely thrilled.”
“You’re in my cabin. You’ve taken over my kitchen. You keep singing Mariah Carey.”
“Exactly. A Christmas miracle.”
His eyes drop to my lips when I laugh, and the air shifts—thicker, charged. The kind of silence that crackles.
I pretend I don’t notice.
Grab the bag of powdered sugar and toss it onto the counter. It explodes. White dust everywhere. All over me.
I yelp.
“Goddammit,” I cough, waving a hand in front of my face, now powdered like a sugarplum ghost. “Okay. That’s it.”
He raises an eyebrow as I walk toward him with dangerous intent.
“Don’t you dare—”
I smear my sugar-covered hand across his chest.
He growls.
Literally.
“You have two seconds to run, cupcake.”
I don’t.
Instead, I flick sugar at his nose.
“Oops.”
He grabs me.
Effortless.
One minute I’m smug and sticky, the next I’m airborne, tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I shriek, laughing and kicking, but he’s solid. Immovable.
And growling again.
“Put me down!”
“Say you surrender.”
“Never!”
He smacks my ass lightly. “Suit yourself.”
He dumps me onto the couch with a bounce, towering over me, and suddenly the room tilts. His eyes are dark. Focused. Tracking every movement I make like I’m prey.
My chest rises. Falls. Rises faster.
His fingers trace the edge of frosting on my collarbone. “You’re a mess.”
“Always.”
“Bet you taste like sugar.”
“I taste better than that.”
He leans in.
“Prove it.”
His lips are inches from mine.
My pulse spikes.
His hand slides along my jaw, rough and warm, and I forget how to breathe. Forget where I am. Forget that I came here for a TV show and not to fall into a blizzard of lust and flannel.