Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Lucy exhales shakily. “I should… go.”
I nod, slowly, chest tight. “Yeah.”
She stands, pulling her coat tighter, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a way that almost destroys me.
I walk her to the door.
She steps out onto the porch, snow swirling around her. She turns back, meeting my gaze.
“This was…” She trails off.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “It was.”
She bites her lip, breath fogging the air. “Goodnight, Ash.”
“Goodnight, Lucy.”
She walks down the path, boots crunching softly in the snow. I watch until she reaches her cabin, until her light switches on, until I’m sure she’s safe. Only then do I close the door and lean back against it, pulse still wrecked.
Because Holly’s letter wasn’t wrong.
I’m lonely.
But not anymore. Not when Lucy Snow is turning my whole damn world upside down. Not when she looked at me tonight like she wanted to stay. Not when I can finally admit—I want her to.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lucy
The knock comes soft and early, the kind of gentle, deliberate tapping that’s meant to wake someone without startling them.
I’m already half-awake—if you can call it that. I’m warm under my blanket, curled against the mountain of pillows I always swear I’ll scale back, blinking up at the ceiling while my heart decides it’s morning enough to beat again.
It’s my first Christmas on Devil’s Peak.
My first one in this tiny cabin with its crooked beams and mismatched charm. My first one with Ash just a few steps away. The knock comes again, quiet but unmistakable.
My pulse jumps.
I toss aside the blanket and hop into my fuzzy socks, pushing the hair out of my face as I pad across the wooden floor. The cold air seeps under the door, brushing my ankles with a shiver. I tug my robe tighter and crack the door open.
And there he is. Ash Calder.
Big, broad, impossibly attractive at six in the morning, standing on my snowy porch like he belongs there. Snow dusts his hair and shoulders. His breath clouds the air. His cheeks are pink from the cold. He holds two steaming cups of coffee in one large hand.
But it’s the smile that hits me. Not his smirk. Not his teasing half-grin. Not the rare, reluctant curve of amusement. This one is shy. And on him? God help me—it’s lethal.
“Merry Christmas, Sparky,” he says, voice warm enough to melt the icicles hanging off the roof.
My whole chest glows. “Merry Christmas, Ash.”
He holds up a cup. “Peace offering.”
“For what?” I ask, stepping onto the porch with him. The snow crunches under my socks and I immediately regret all my life choices. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He raises a brow. “You say that now. You haven’t tasted my coffee yet.”
I laugh, taking the cup. My fingers brush his, and the contact is a spark—immediate, visceral, impossible to ignore.
He notices. He always notices.
“Join us?” he asks, low and almost rough. “Me and Holly, I mean. She’s already up. She made ornaments out of the leftover ribbons from your float, and she’s insisting she saved the prettiest one for you.”
My chest tightens, warm and full.
“Always,” I say.
His eyes soften but he doesn’t move.
He just stands there, looking at me, snow falling around us, lights from my tree glowing through the frosted window behind me. Something shifts in the air—subtle, dangerous, beautiful. I sip the coffee to hide how intensely he’s staring. The heat pools in my stomach, slow and spreading.
“You okay?” I ask.
He steps closer. “Yeah. Just… didn’t think you could look more beautiful than you did last night.”
My breath catches. The robe suddenly feels too thin. The snow suddenly feels irrelevant.
I whisper, “Ash…”
He lifts a hand slowly, like he’s giving me time to stop him. His fingers graze my jaw—barely—and I melt. Actually melt. My knees soften, my breath hitches, my heart free-falls into something deep and terrifying and completely right. The porch is silent except for the soft hiss of falling snow. His thumb traces the line of my cheek.
“Been waiting to do this,” he murmurs.
I rise onto my toes without thinking, chasing his warmth.
“Ash,” I breathe.
That’s all it takes. He leans in and kisses me.
Slow at first. Mindful. Testing. His lips press to mine with a kind of reverence that steals the breath from my lungs. He cups my jaw with one hand, the other sliding to my waist, pulling me closer, holding me steady as the world tilts under us.
I exhale into him, fingers curling into the front of his jacket. The kiss deepens as if something he’s been holding back for weeks finally snaps free.
His mouth moves against mine with a hunger that’s controlled only by the thin edge of restraint he’s clinging to. He tastes like coffee and heat and a man who’s finally letting himself want something. Want me.
My hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders. I press closer, feel him inhale sharply against my lips. He groans softly—low, rough, devastating—and the sound runs straight through me. Snowflakes melt in my hair. Lights glow behind us. Ash kisses me like he’s waited for this moment every day since the first one he saw me. And then he breaks the kiss for half a second, forehead resting against mine, breathing hard.