Chapter 3
The snow outside hasn't stopped falling.
It drifts past the lodge windows in thick, lazy flakes.
I'm at the kitchenette counter, perched on a stool, swinging my legs and humming under my breath as I sort through a pile of discarded ornaments, I found in a box labeled for donation.
The tune is off-key, cheerful, and entirely me.
Every few seconds I glance toward the hallway, half expecting the tall, dark silhouette of my temporary roommate to appear.
It's been a couple of hours since I’ve seen Justin.
He's been in the small office attached to the lodge all morning, muttering into a phone and pacing in slow, measured strides that somehow make even irritation look efficient.
Every time I catch sight of him through the frosted glass door, I feel that tug again, the one that sits somewhere between curiosity and something much less innocent.
When the door finally opens, he steps into the room and stops, taking in the sight of me surrounded by ribbons and glitter.
"It looks like Santa’s Workshop exploded," he says dryly.
"Don't you love it?" I hold up a bauble shaped like a penguin. "He's missing an eye, but I think it gives him character. I gave him an eye patch. Look, now he’s Pirate Penguin. Captain Beakbeard at your service."
Justin's mouth twitches into almost a smile, almost. "You've been busy."
"Productive," I correct. "I’m trying to make things look... happier around here."
"Things or people?"
I blink. "What?"
He leans a shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "You fill every silence, every empty space. I'm not sure if you're decorating or deflecting."
It's not unkind, just perceptive. Too perceptive. The comment lands low in my chest, stirring something raw. "Maybe both," I admit quietly.
He studies me for a moment, then nods once as if that's enough honesty for now. "There's a storm update. The plows won't reach us until at least Monday. I tried but the pass is completely blocked. An avalanche."
"So… we're still snowed in."
"Yes. Which means we need to establish a few rules if we're going to coexist without driving each other insane."
"Rules," I echo, half amused. "You sound like the HR manual."
"I wrote the HR manual."
Of course he did.
“Who gave you the authority to make rules?”
“I did. I am still the boss around here.”
“Oh? Am I on the clock?”
“No, but you are staying in my lodge. My lodge, my rules.” He narrows his eyes just slightly. “You could use some structure in your life. Are you going to push back on this?”
I think for a second. He is going all Daddy on me and I kind of like it. I shake my head no.
He moves closer, just a step, but it changes the air between us. "Rule one— absolutely no wandering outside alone. Rule two—if you go out in the snow you will be completely dressed for the elements, that means gloves. Rule three—"
"Don't play with glitter?" I offer sweetly, holding up one of the containers of red and green glitter I’d found in the closet.
"Rule three," he continues evenly, "is listen when I'm talking and follow my directions."
The tone is quiet, firm enough to still the air between us. I can feel his tone. Its authority wrapped in something else… something, tempting. There's nothing overt about it, yet every nerve in my body reacts.
"Got it," I say softly. "You don't like chaos."
"I prefer order."
"And what happens when someone breaks one of your rules?"
His gaze holds mine, steady, unreadable. "Let's hope you don't find out."
It shouldn't sound like a promise, but it does. And I can’t help but wonder how long it will be before I find out. I’m not exactly the best rule follower.
My breath catches, heat curling low in my belly. I cover it by turning back to my ornament pile. "I'll try to behave, boss." I pick up my phone and scroll through my messages. There are several notifications from my group chat.
Madison: Okay but have you TALKED to him yet? Like really talked?
Lily: She's too busy making heart eyes at his spreadsheets.
Me: There are no heart eyes. We're just... coexisting.
Chloe: That's what Monica said about Brett before the barn incident.
Amber: The barn incident was LEGENDARY!
Me: There will be no incidents.
Maya: She's lying. I can feel it through the screen.
I pocket my phone before Justin can ask.
He goes back into his office, and I spend the rest of the morning salvaging the discarded ornaments.
We spend the afternoon exploring the closed park, moving through the empty lanes of candy-striped lampposts and twinkle lights.
The snowfall slows to a whisper, and the world looks dipped in sugar.
I chatter about my favorite attractions.
I love the carousel, the reindeer barn, the cocoa stand that serves peppermint whipped cream.
Justin listens with his hands in his pockets; shoulders relaxed for once.
He asks questions, small ones, but there's a shift in his voice, there is less command, more curiosity.
He tells me more stories about growing up here and I can see he really loves this place.
When we stop by the reindeer pen, I stretch over the fence with a handful of feed. A velvet nose nudges my palm. "They love me."
"I'm sure they do," he says, coming up beside me. "You talk to them like they're humans, I half expect them to talk back."
“Don’t you talk to your coworkers?”
“What?”
"The reindeer are my coworkers. We just have different job descriptions and I get paid in money while they get paid in room and board."
Justin's chuckle is low, genuine. The sound makes my heart skip.
"There's eggnog in the cafeteria kitchen," he says as we walk back. "The spiked kind."
"You're offering me alcohol? Is this where you admit you're actually fun?"
"I'm offering you warmth. The alcohol is incidental."
"Still counts."
By the time we return to the lodge, dusk has settled and a soft glow from the fireplace paints everything gold. He puts away the food we’d gathered from the kitchen and I pour the eggnog into two mugs, watch him add nutmeg from a small tin. His movements are precise, almost ritualistic.
"You really can't just... wing it, can you?" I ask.
"Why would I? There's a right way to do things."
"Must be exhausting."
He looks up. "What must?"
"Needing everything perfect all the time."
"I don't need perfect." He hands me a mug. "I need reliable."
I take a sip. The eggnog is rich, warm, with a kick that burns pleasantly. "Because people let you down?"
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "People are unpredictable."
"So are snowstorms. And Christmas. And—"
"You," he finishes.
I grin. "I'm very predictable. Glitter. Cocoa. Bad jokes. Singing offkey."
"And books you hide on your phone."
My smile falters. I had been catching up on my favorite author’s new Daddy Dom romance when he’d sat next to me on the couch earlier and quickly swiped away before he could see it.
Later, when the wind howls again and the lights flicker, I pad into the bedroom to grab my phone charger.
I'm halfway across the room when I notice the book on the nightstand, the one with the gold-foil title I forgot to tuck away. The one I’d grabbed from my car and stored in my purse.
If the power went out, I’d still be able to read…
My stomach drops. It must have fallen out of my bag at some point and he’d put it on the nightstand. Oh no. Please tell me he didn't—
"Holly?" His voice from behind me, calm but edged. I freeze.
He steps into the room, eyes flicking from my face to the book in my hand. "Interesting reading material."
"It's research," I blurt, because humor is safer than honesty.
"Research."
"For... writing." My cheeks burn. "Creative writing."
He doesn't call me out on the lie, but the corner of his mouth lifts. "Do your creative projects usually involve dog-eared pages and you blushing dark red?"
I want to disappear. "You weren't supposed to see this."
"I gathered." He steps closer, voice lower now, the kind that fills a space rather than breaks it. "I wasn't looking for it. But I did notice it on the floor and picked it up."
I swallow hard. "So?"
"So," he says gently, "I think we should be honest with each other."
I meet his gaze. "About what?"
"About what you like," he says, then pauses, choosing his words with care. "And what makes you feel safe."
The words are simple, but the intention behind them isn't. It's not teasing, it's acknowledgment. Understanding. A mirror turned quietly toward me.
For a long moment, the only sound is the crackle of fire from the next room. Then I whisper, "You sound like you've read more than just the title."
He smiles faintly. "Maybe I have."
I set the book down carefully on the nightstand. "So, you know what the book is about. The dynamic?"
"I do."
"And you're not..." I gesture vaguely. "Weirded out?"
"No." He moves to the window, looking out at the snow. "I'm intrigued by you. Why would you hide something you enjoy?"
"I don't hide it. I just don't—" I stop, frustrated. "It's not exactly an appropriate conversation to have with your boss."
"We're past that. We're snowed in and drinking spiked eggnog in a Christmas lodge. The rules are different."
I laugh, a little breathless. "Are they?"
He turns back to face me. "Tell me what you like about the dynamic in your book."
My pulse hammers. "Why?"
"Because I want to understand you."