Ice, Ice, Maybe (Pine Hollow Christmas #1)

Chapter 1

Ryder

The highway stretches empty ahead, nothing but pine trees and early snow. My left shoulder aches with every small adjustment to the wheel. My phone glows on the passenger seat—eight missed calls, twelve texts. All asking the same question I can't answer.

But the shoulder isn't what's killing me.

Sienna's latest post has half a million likes by now. Perfect villain material. Nobody asks if any of it's true.

The town limits sign for Pine Hollow appears through the snow. Population 3,847. Three years since Martha's funeral. The worst Christmas of my life, watching Connor and Lucy shatter while their mom was lowered into frozen ground.

Three weeks in Vermont to heal and stay out of trouble. Yeah. That'll go well.

Pine Hollow is aggressively cheerful. Christmas lights strung between buildings. Fake snow on windows. Inflatable Santa on the diner. Martha would've loved it.

The thought makes my chest ache worse than my shoulder.

I turn onto Maple Street. The Wright house sits at the end---two-story colonial, black shutters, wraparound porch. Connor's truck in the driveway. The whole family here for the holidays.

I kill the engine and sit in the sudden quiet. My phone lights up again. I flip it face down.

Get through the holidays. Heal. Get back to Boston. Don't let anyone close.

The cold hits when I step out. Vermont winter, nothing like Boston. Sharper. Cleaner. Gets in your lungs and stays there. Someone's shoveled the walk. The porch steps are lined with luminarias, and the front door has a wreath the size of a truck tire.

I reach for the doorbell when I hear it. Music blasting from inside. "All I Want for Christmas Is You" and someone singing along, off-key but enthusiastic.

I try the door. Unlocked. Small towns.

Warmth hits me first, then the smell. Pine and cinnamon and something baking. The entryway opens into a large living room.

That's where I see her.

Lucy Wright stands on a ladder in front of the biggest Christmas tree I've ever seen, wearing a red sweater with actual blinking lights.

She's stretched up on her toes, trying to hang an ornament on the top branch.

Honey-blonde hair falls in waves down her back.

I can see the curve of her waist where the sweater rides up. A sliver of pale skin above her jeans.

I drop my bag. She turns at the sound. Those hazel eyes go wide. Her mouth forms a perfect O.

Then she's falling.

I move. Drop the bag, cross the room, catch her before she hits the ground. The ladder clatters sideways. She lands against my chest and knocks the air out of both of us.

Neither of us moves.

She's warm and soft in my arms. Vanilla and something so sweet it makes my teeth ache.

My hands span her waist---I can feel her ribs, the racing of her heart through her sweater.

Her hands grip my shoulders. Her face is inches from mine.

Those hazel eyes, more green than brown in the Christmas lights, stare up at me.

I can see freckles across her nose and cheeks.

See her lips parted like she forgot how to breathe.

Heat floods through me, unwelcome and sharp.

This is Lucy. Connor's little sister. The kid who used to follow us around begging to play street hockey. The girl who baked me cookies when my mom died.

Except she's not a kid. She's all curves and soft skin and a mouth that makes me forget why this is a bad idea.

"Hi, Lucy," I say. My voice comes out rough.

Pink floods her cheeks. "Oh my god. Ryder.

Hi. I'm so sorry. I didn't hear you come in.

The music was too loud, and I was trying to get the angel on the top but she's being stubborn, and I thought I could reach if I stretched a little more but that was a terrible idea and thank you for catching me because that would've been a bad fall and---"

She's babbling. It's adorable. I set her on her feet and step back like she burned me.

"You okay?"

"Yes. Fine. Great. You're here!" She smooths down her sweater, and the lights blink at me.

"Connor said you were coming today, but I didn't know what time and Emma took Maisie to the store and Connor's in his office on a call and I was trying to get the tree finished because it's December tenth and the tree should be done by now but we've all been so busy with the house renovation and---"

"Blackwood!" Connor's voice booms from the hallway. He appears, phone in hand, face splitting into a grin. "You made it!"

He pulls me into one of those back-slapping man-hugs that's more collision than embrace. I return it, grateful for the interruption. Grateful to look away from Lucy and the flush still on her cheeks.

"Traffic was light."

"Good, good. You look like hell, man."

"Thanks."

Connor laughs. "Come on, I'll show you where you're staying." He glances at Lucy. "Lulu, you good? Sounded like the tree attacked you."

"Fine," she says, too bright. "Clumsy."

She won't look at me. She's straightening the tree skirt, fussing with lights, doing anything but making eye contact. I follow Connor toward the stairs, but I can feel her presence behind me like heat from a fire.

Connor takes the steps two at a time. "So the renovation's taking longer than expected.

Foundation issues, then we found mold. Whole mess.

We're all camping out here at Dad's until it's done.

You're in the guest room, Emma and I are in the master with Maisie, and Dad's got his room.

You and Lucy share a bathroom, jack-and-jill style, so knock before you go in.

She takes forever in there but swears she's getting better about it. "

Shared bathroom. Of course.

He opens the door to a medium-sized room. Queen bed, dresser, window overlooking the backyard. "Bathroom's through there." He points to a door on the right wall. "Try not to use all the hot water. Lucy gets cranky."

"Got it."

Connor leans against the doorframe. "Glad you're here, man. Feels like old times. Plus, Lucy's been driving us all crazy with the Christmas stuff. Maybe you can distract her a little."

Distract her. Right.

"How long are you staying?"

"Through New Year's. I've got contract talks in January, but until then I'm supposed to rest the shoulder and stay out of trouble."

"Well, you picked the right place for that. Nothing but quiet and Christmas spirit here." He grins. "Dinner's at six. Emma's cooking, so it'll be edible. I'll let you get settled."

He leaves. I sit on the bed and pull out my phone. Seventeen notifications. I delete them without reading.

My shoulder aches. I roll it, feeling the tightness. The doctors say it's healing, but it needs time. That's why I'm here instead of Boston, where the media circus never stops.

I unpack. Clothes in the dresser. When I put my razor by the bathroom sink, I notice the other stuff. Perfume. A toothbrush in a cat-shaped holder. Hair ties and bobby pins.

Lucy's stuff.

I back out of the bathroom and close the door to my side. Stand there staring at the white-painted wood.

This is fine. We're adults. We can share a bathroom without it being weird. I've known Lucy since she was six years old.

Except I'm not thinking about six-year-old Lucy. I'm thinking about the woman in my arms. The curve of her waist. The way she felt pressed against me. The heat in her eyes before she looked away.

This is not fine.

Dinner is as uncomfortable as I expected.

Jim Wright sits at the head of the table, older and grayer but still solid. He grips my hand with both of his. Doesn't say anything about Martha, but I see it in his eyes.

Emma is Connor's wife. Easy confidence, marketing consultant. She hugs me as if we're old friends. Their daughter Maisie is three, talking nonstop about cookies and Santa.

And Lucy. Lucy sits across from me in a green sweater, hair pulled back. She keeps her eyes on her plate except when she has to look at someone else. Even then, she doesn't look at me.

But I look at her. I can't stop looking.

"How's the shoulder?" Emma asks.

"Getting there."

Connor snorts. "You're religious about hockey. I've never seen anyone so obsessed."

"It's my job."

"It's your life," Connor corrects. "When's the last time you relaxed?"

I don't answer because I don't remember.

Jim asks about the Bruins, and we talk hockey. Safe territory. Lucy gets up to refill water glasses, and I watch her move. I have to look away when I catch myself staring.

After dinner, Emma declares it's time for Maisie's bath. Connor volunteers to help. Lucy starts clearing plates.

"Let me help."

"You're a guest," Jim says.

"I'm family," I counter, and Jim's expression softens.

Lucy doesn't argue. Hands me a stack of plates and leads the way to the kitchen. Big country kitchen, white cabinets, butcher block counters. She fills the sink with soapy water while I scrape plates into the trash.

"You don't have to help," she says, not looking at me.

"It's fine."

We work in silence. She washes; I dry. The dishwasher runs with the first load.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she says. "The falling thing. That was embarrassing."

"You apologizing for gravity?"

Her mouth tips up. "I guess that would be stupid."

"Pretty stupid."

She hands me a plate. Our fingers brush. She pulls back quickly, but I feel that touch everywhere. My pulse kicks up.

"I'm glad you're here," she says, and her voice softens in a way that makes my chest tighten. "Connor's been worried about you."

"Connor worries too much."

"It's what big brothers do."

She's scrubbing a pot now. A strand of hair falls into her face, and she blows it away. I have the strangest urge to reach over and tuck it behind her ear. To let my fingers trail down her jaw. To see if her skin is as soft as it looks.

I don't.

"The tree looks good," I say instead.

"You think? I wasn't sure about the angel. She's kind of crooked."

"She's perfect."

Lucy glances at me. For a second, our eyes meet. Hold. I see something there I didn't expect. Heat and want and surprise, like she can't believe she's feeling it either.

Then she looks away. The moment breaks.

"I should finish up," she says. "Early morning tomorrow. The shop gets busy this time of year."

"The shop?"

"The Frost and Ivy. My bookstore. Well, bookstore and gift shop. I've had it for two years now." Pride creeps into her voice. "You should stop by sometime."

"Yeah. Maybe."

She dries her hands and gives me a small smile. "Goodnight, Ryder."

"Goodnight."

She leaves. When I head upstairs, I can hear Connor reading to Maisie, his voice doing different character voices. Jim's TV in his room. And music from Lucy's room. Something soft and acoustic.

I close my door and sit on the edge of the bed. My shoulder throbs. I should do my exercises. Should take the anti-inflammatory. Should get ready for bed and try to sleep.

Instead, I sit there and stare at the bathroom door.

The door that leads to Lucy's room.

An hour later, I give up on sleep.

My shoulder aches. My mind won't shut off. The bed is too soft. I get up, pull on sweatpants, and head to the bathroom for water and aspirin.

I don't knock. It's late. Everyone's in bed.

I open the door.

Lucy is in the bathtub.

The scene makes me hesitate, not sure what to do.

Bubbles and candlelight. Her head tipped back against the rim, eyes closed.

Her hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot.

And her shoulders---bare and pale and perfect above the water.

Her skin glows in the soft light. I can see the curve of her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat.

Water droplets cling to her skin. The bubbles don't cover as much as they should.

I catch a glimpse of the swell of her breasts, the pink of a nipple just barely hidden by foam.

My brain short-circuits. Blood rushes south so fast I get dizzy.

She hears the door. Her eyes fly open. For a frozen second, we stare at each other.

Her eyes are very green in the candlelight. Her lips part in surprise. I can see the quick rise and fall of her chest as her breathing speeds up. See the way her pupils dilate. The bubbles shift with her movement, and I see more---the curve of her breast, her ribcage, the dip of her waist.

Heat floods through me. Sharp and hungry and wrong. My body responds whether or not I want it to. I'm getting hard, and there's nothing I can do about it except back out of this room before I do something stupid.

Like step inside. Lock the door. Find out if she tastes as sweet as she smells.

"Fuck," I say. "Sorry. I didn't---"

I back out fast and yank the door closed. I stand there on my side with my heart hammering. My pulse pounds in my throat, my temples, my groin. I hear splashing on the other side. I imagine her sitting up, water streaming down her body, bubbles sliding over her skin.

I need to stop.

"It's okay," she calls through the door. Her voice is breathless. High. "I should've locked it."

"My fault."

Silence. Then: "I'll be out in a few minutes."

"Take your time."

I back away from the door and return to my room. Sit on the bed. Put my head in my hands.

This is bad.

When I saw her in that tub, I wanted to sink to my knees beside it and trail my fingers through the water.

I wanted to watch the bubbles slide away.

Wanted to find out if her skin tastes as good as it looks, if she'd make those breathy sounds if I put my mouth on her neck. I wanted to make her say my name.

I wanted, and I have no right.

She's Lucy. Connor's baby sister. I can still hear his voice from nine years ago, catching me watching her at her high school graduation. "She's off-limits, man. Your lifestyle would destroy someone like her."

He was right then. He's right now.

Not me.

I lay back and stare at the ceiling. Listen to the water drain. Listen to her moving around, getting ready for bed. Listen to her door close.

My shoulder aches. And I'm aware---too aware---that Lucy Wright is so close. In an oversized T-shirt. Brushing her hair. Sliding into bed.

I'm aware of her scent—warm vanilla, a hint of spice. The image burned into my brain: her wet skin, her parted lips, the surprise in her eyes that looked like heat. I'm aware, and I shouldn't be. But I am.

When sleep comes hours later, I dream of falling and catching and green eyes in candlelight. Of water and bubbles and pale skin. Of curves I want to map with my hands. I dream of Lucy Wright, and I wake before dawn with her name on my lips and the smell of vanilla and cinnamon in the air.

This is going to be a long three weeks.