Chapter 21 Olivia
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Olivia
Coyote Glen has officially turned into a Christmas card.
Lights strung across Main Street, wreaths on every shop door, the air smelling of cinnamon and pine, like some Hallmark movie threw up all over town. It’s… magical. And exhausting.
Because apparently, when your town looks festive and adorable, everybody wants coffee. Specifically, my coffee. Specifically, coffee that tastes of sugar cookies, candy canes, or gingerbread.
I’ve basically turned into Santa’s personal barista, only instead of elves I’ve got Maddie, who’s sixteen, sassy, and currently humming “All I Want for Christmas Is You” for the eighth time this morning.
And me? I’m running on exactly zero Christmas cheer and about seven shots of espresso.
My little coffee truck is decked out within an inch of its life. Twinkly lights, fake snow spray on the window, a wreath I hot-glued myself that is going to fall apart before Christmas Eve.
I even ordered red and green cups with Merry & Bright stamped on the side. Honestly? It looks like an overcaffeinated elf decorated the place.
Which… fair.
By nine thirty a.m. I’ve already made forty-seven peppermint mochas, thirty-two gingerbread lattes, and approximately one million whipped cream clouds.
My fingers are sticky, my apron looks like it lost a fight with a candy cane, and I may or may not have squirted caramel sauce directly into my mouth between orders.
Don’t judge.
“Olivia! You’re a lifesaver!” some frazzled mom with three kids sings at me as I hand her a tray of hot cocoa bombs topped with marshmallows the size of golf balls.
“Just trying to spread joy one sugar high at a time,” I say with my customer service smile, which is sixty percent genuine, and forty percent please let me sit down before I collapse.
And the truth is, I do love it. The chaos, the chatter, the smell of beans and cinnamon. It feels alive. But underneath all that? There’s this buzzing in my chest I can’t turn off.
Because while I’m shoving cups into cardboard drink carriers, I’m also thinking about drywall and electricians and how much money it’s going to take to make my place livable again.
I’m trying not to think about Karl and the disaster at my temporary home. Trying not to think about how I’m free now… but also unmoored—a snowflake stuck in a windstorm, no idea where I’ll land.
And then, because the universe is a sadist, I glance up just in time to see Jesse strolling down Main Street toward the firehouse.
Tall, broad-shouldered, hat pulled low against the cold, and very much the last person I need to be thinking about while I’m sticky with whipped cream and wearing reindeer earrings.
He notices me. Of course he does. And instead of pretending I’m invisible like a sane person, he lifts a hand in a half-wave, half-awkward “please don’t bite me” gesture. He even tacks on a smile. Small, crooked, devastating.
And my treacherous heart? Yeah, it flutters. Clearly, it didn’t get the memo about self-preservation.
So yeah. December first, and I’m already running on fumes, sarcasm, and the memory of Jesse’s hands on my waist. Merry freaking Christmas.
By the time I close up, my brain feels it’s been steamed along with the milk. The register jammed twice. One guy ordered a peppermint mocha with oat milk, extra hot, no foam, and triple whip.
Seriously, why are people like this? And in a tired state, I accidentally wrote “Scrooge” instead of “Serge” on a cup, which… okay, that part was funny, but still.
I need a drink. Desperately.
So, I make a pit stop at the little grocery store on Main and grab the biggest, cheapest bottle of red wine they have. The kind with a cartoon reindeer on the label that screams I’m festive, drink me. Perfect.
I picture myself curled up at the cabin, fuzzy socks, glass of wine in hand, pretending my life isn’t a tangled ball of almost boyfriends, and definitely off-limits brothers.
But when I get home, the universe laughs in my face again.
I push open the kitchen door, bottle tucked under my arm, and there he is.
Leo. The man who hates me. My stomach drops.
He looks up, freezes. For a second, neither of us says anything—just the hum of the fridge and my pulse hammering in my ears.
“Olivia,” he says finally. He says my name like it’s something dangerous, like he’d rather swallow glass than let it linger on his tongue.
I grip the bottle tighter. “Leo.”
And I’m done.
I don’t know what snaps in me, but something does.
I just can’t stand that look on his face.
“Okay, nope,” I say, dropping the wine bottle on the counter with a thunk that makes him flinch.
“We’re not doing this. I’ve had the longest day of my life, scratch that, this entire month has been the longest day of my life, and I am not about to stand here while you look at me like I’m an intruder in my own damn life. ”
His brow furrows, that familiar crease digging deep. “That’s not what I—”
“Oh, spare me,” I snap, cutting him off.
“You’ve made it very clear, Leo. You don’t want me here.
You’ve been glaring at me since the second I walked into this house, muttering under your breath, slamming cabinets like I stole your puppy.
Newsflash: I didn’t ask for my apartment to burn down.
I didn’t ask to crash your perfect little firefighter bromance.
I want to get out of here as much as you want me gone. ”
I blink away traitorous tears as Karl’s words flood me.
We’ve only been on one date, Leo. One. I was just being kind.
I hate not being wanted here, but I can’t get out fast enough.
Color rises in Leo’s face, jaw tight. “It’s not about—”
“Yes, it is,” I fire back, stepping closer, my hands shaking but steady.
“You think I don’t notice the way you go silent every time I walk into a room?
The way you act like I’m contaminating the air just by breathing it.
You don’t trust me? Fine. But at least have the guts to admit you don’t want me around instead of hiding behind your moody glares. ”
His eyes flash. “I never said I didn’t want you around.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He steps forward then, closing the space between us in one long stride. His presence hits me like a wall: heat, tension, something darker under the surface.
“If I didn’t want you here, Olivia, you’d know.”
My breath stutters. “I do know. You make it clear.”
His eyes narrow, sharp enough to cut. “You think every glare, every slammed cabinet, every clipped word is me not wanting you? You really think I’d waste that much energy on someone I didn’t care about?”
I blink, startled. “Care? That’s what you call it? You’ve spent two weeks acting like I’m a cockroach you can’t squash.”
“Because you don’t get it,” he bites out, his voice rising. “You walk in here with your coffee and your sarcasm and your…your smile, and suddenly everything feels different. I feel different. And I don’t want to. I can’t want to.”
The words slam into me, hot and confusing. “So, it’s my fault? For existing? For not rolling over and letting you hate me in peace?”
His jaw ticks. He’s grinding the words to dust before spitting them out.
“No. It’s my fault for noticing. For watching you laugh with Karl and Ivy and every damn person in this town like you’ve always belonged here.
I want to walk into the kitchen and find you there.
For…for looking forward to it, when I shouldn’t. ”
Huh?
What the hell is he talking about?
My brain stutters. The words don’t fit together. What the hell is he even talking about? He’s mad at me… for existing in proximity? For making coffee? For… laughing?
My stomach flips, heat flooding my face. “So, what, you resent me because you like me? That makes no sense, Leo. None. I would talk to you, too, if you wanted me to.”
His laugh is sharp, bitter. “You think I haven’t told myself that?
Every night I lie awake telling myself to stop, to ignore it, to shut it down.
And then I walk in here and you’re barefoot, dancing around the stove like you own the place, and I…
” His hands flex helplessly at his sides. “I can’t breathe.”
My pulse thrums, unsteady. “You’ve been punishing me. For making you feel something you don’t want to feel.”
His eyes flash, wild and desperate. “I don’t hate you, Olivia. I wish I did. I hate that I can’t stop wanting you.”
The room tilts. I grip the counter behind me, searching his face for the lie, the catch, the cruel punchline that never comes.
Is that why the entire conversation with Karl took place?
“Then why spend the last two weeks treating me like I’m toxic?” My voice shakes, but it’s steel underneath. “Why make me feel like I’m intruding on a life I never asked to crash?”
His chest heaves, ragged. “Because wanting you feels like betrayal. To Karl. To myself. To every damn rule I’ve lived by since the day I became a firefighter. I haven’t even wanted to admit it to myself until now.”
It lands in me. All this time, I thought he hated me. But it wasn’t hate. It was restraint stretched so tight it snapped.
And that knowledge? It’s gasoline on the fire.
The air between us crackles, alive, too hot. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but he moves first.
One step. Two. Then his body is right in front of mine, heat radiating off him like a furnace.
I stumble back, my shoulders hitting the wall with a soft thud. His arm comes up, braced beside my head, caging me in without touching.
My breath hitches. I should tell him to back up, to stop. I should push him away. But my body betrays me—skin prickling, pulse slamming, knees turning weak.
He leans closer, his face a storm of want and fury.
“You don’t get it,” he says again, rough, chest rising hard against mine. “You have no idea what it’s like walking around with this… this thing eating me alive every time you’re near.”
I swallow hard, words deserting me. All I can think about is the sheer size of him in my space, the way his breath ghosts over my cheek, the faint scrape of stubble when he turns his head.
And that’s when it hits me.
I’m turned on.
Not just a little. Not just a flutter. It’s a wave crashing through me, sharp and undeniable, scorching every nerve.
Shit.
I want him.
The realization is so violent, so sudden, it steals my voice.
My hands, traitorous, press against his chest. Not to shove him away, but to feel the hard muscle under my palms. To confirm he’s real. His heart pounds there, as frantic as mine.
“Leo…” I whisper, not even sure if it’s a warning or a plea.
His gaze drops to my mouth. And then he’s gone, no hesitation, no restraint, just raw need, his lips crashing onto mine as if he’s been holding back for years instead of weeks.
It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s desperate and furious and unbearably hot, every sharp word and glare and slammed cabinet detonating into this one reckless moment.
His mouth claims mine like he’s starving. He’s been holding himself back so long he can’t stand another second of it. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, angling me closer, deeper, until I can barely breathe but don’t want to.
I make a sound, half gasp, half surrender, and he swallows it like it fuels him. His body presses flush to mine, pinning me to the wall, solid heat and coiled tension that makes my knees go weak.
And so help me, I kiss him back. My hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer like I’ve been waiting for this fight to burn down into something hotter, darker, inevitable.
The kiss deepens, teeth clashing, lips bruising, tongues tangling in a rhythm that’s combat and confession all at once. It’s messy and wild, the weeks of denial exploding into something that should feel wrong but feels too right to stop.