Chapter 3
Noel
I’ve seen a lot of wet men in my life. Catalog shoots. Calendar auditions. One very regrettable spring break in Cabo.
But nothing—and I mean nothing— compares to a pissed-off mountain man wrapped in a towel, dripping water onto the warped hardwood floor of his hunting cabin first thing in the morning, while glaring at me like I just insulted his mother.
“Still staring?” Nash grunts, dragging a flannel shirt over those wide, wet shoulders.
I jerk my eyes up. Or try to. They seem determined to stay glued to the drops sliding down his chest, the way they disappear into the sharp V of muscle just below his navel.
“That’s funny,” I say, clearing my throat and adjusting my camera bag strap like it might protect me. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
His eyes narrow, jaw ticking under that peppered beard. “You make a habit of walking into strange men’s houses uninvited and then bossing them around with tinsel and a smile?”
I flash my best pageant smile. “Only when I’m their bride.”
He blinks. Slowly. Like he’s trying to erase me with his eyelids.
“Don’t push me, tinsel girl.”
“Oh, I’m not pushing. I’m proposing.”
I drop the box of glitter-dusted tinsel and garland at my feet and thrust a very official-looking envelope at him.
It’s the agreement for Mountain Makeovers: Holiday Edition, complete with the logo, my photo, and a brief summary of the challenge: transform the cabin into a winter wonderland and win a quarter mil.
I even circled the prize money in red ink. Hearts included.
His eyes flick over the document, then back to me. Flat. “This supposed to impress me?”
“No,” I say, stepping closer and planting myself right in front of him, toe to toe.
“It’s supposed to convince you to let me stay here, decorate the hell out of this sad little taxidermy nest of yours, and win the contest. I told you I’ll split the prize.
Fifty-fifty. Then you’ll never see me again. ”
A beat of silence.
His eyes drop to my lips, then lower—to the exposed skin where my coat has slipped open, revealing a cherry-red sweater with the words Sleigh All Day in silver sequins. His mouth twitches. Not a smile. More like a silent groan.
“Told you you can stay ’til the storm passes.”
“I need longer than that.”
“How long?” he practically growls.
“A week, maybe ten days.”
Silence scented with woodsmoke and cinnamon breathes between us.
“Why me?” he finally mutters.
“You’re the one that ran a mail-order bride ad.
And when the bartender at The Devil’s Brew said you were a reclusive Grinch with a face for TV and a cabin with excellent ‘rustic charm’ I knew I’d made the right choice.
” I pause. “Also because you live so far out, none of the other contestants would be willing to drive up here.”
“Smart.”
“But not me,” I add brightly. “I’ve got snow tires and a dream. Anyway—about that ad for a bride—I had the good fortune of stumbling across it so I figure the timing is perfect.”
He exhales hard. Turns toward the fireplace. His back—that back—is broad and tense beneath his half-buttoned shirt. I could hang stockings from those shoulder blades.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea. I mean, only one bed for the next week. That’s a recipe for disaster.”
I sigh. “Is it? Guess I’ll just have to tell the judges how Nash Hollis, local mountain man and designated hermit, refused to help a hard-working, determined woman achieve her lifelong dream.”
He turns slowly, like a bear preparing to maul.
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“Just a little,” I chirp.
“You’re insane.”
“Possibly.”
Another long stare-down. His eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate. He’s calculating. Weighing options. Probably considering if he can chop firewood while I’m here without murdering me with an axe on accident.
I fold my arms across my chest, trying not to show how fast my heart is hammering. Not from fear. From proximity. From the way this man looks at me like I’m a category five migraine with good legs.
He crosses the room in two strides. Stops close. Too close.
“You really gonna decorate this place? With... glitter and shit?”
“Twinkle lights. Wreaths. A fake snow machine, if I can get the generator to handle it.”
“You think I’m letting a woman in combat boots and lip gloss turn my cabin into a damn Macy’s window display?”
“Actually,” I murmur, leaning up on my toes, “I think you’re going to love it.”
His nostrils flare. I can feel the heat rolling off him, a furnace of irritation and something darker. Something that hums between us like a live wire.
He glares.
I grin.
By the time I’ve unloaded the rest of my props and gear, the cabin looks a little more like a tornado blew through Hobby Lobby. I unpack fake snow blankets, a 4-foot pre-lit tree, strings of multicolored lights, ribbon, and about six hundred glittery ornaments.
Nash watches from the doorway with his arms crossed like he’s about to call the cops.
I hang a “Merry & Bright” banner over the window.
“Take that down,” he growls.
I flip a switch and the sign lights up in pink and gold.
He hisses like I’ve sprayed holy water on a vampire.
“This is a cabin,” he says. “Not a strip mall.”
“This is art,” I shoot back. “Also, this is money. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars, remember?”
He stalks past me, grabs a strand of garland, and shoves it back in the bin.
I shove it back out.
“You don’t win by subtraction,” I say sweetly. “I need impact. Flair. Festivity.”
“I need a drink.”
He grabs a bottle of whiskey from the counter, swigs straight from the neck.
I raise an eyebrow. “Do you also growl at Girl Scouts?”
“No, but if they came in here taping mistletoe to my rafters, we’d have a problem.”
I hold up a sprig and aim it at the beam above his head. “Oh, so this isn’t a problem yet?”
He doesn’t blink.
I climb the step stool and staple the mistletoe in place, high above his head, then look down at him with what I hope is an innocent smile.
“You know the rules,” I say.
He tilts his head. “What rules?”
“Mistletoe rules.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping an octave. “You wanna kiss me, Miss Combat Boots, you better stop hiding behind holiday loopholes and ask.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I climb down slowly, trying not to wobble.
“I don’t want to kiss you,” I lie.
He leans in, voice like gravel and heat. “Liar.”
Then he steps back.
Just like that.
Just far enough to leave me breathless, heart pounding, hands clenched around a tangle of ribbon.
***
Hours later, we eat dinner in near silence, the fire crackling, snow tapping at the windows. My lasagna might’ve burned a little, but he cleaned the plate.
I can feel him watching me across the table, the slow drag of his gaze down my face to my hands. I sip my wine and pretend not to notice.
He leans back in the creaky chair.
“You got a boyfriend back home?”
I blink. “That’s a bold question.”
“I’m a bold man.”
“No,” I say. “No boyfriend.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “Too busy with my photography and interior design business. Too picky. Too uninterested in men who are impressed with their own reflection.”
He nods. “Fair.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Any special woman in your life?”
He holds my gaze. “There might be one. She broke into my house, hung up mistletoe, and thinks she can win me over with festive frosting and flashing lights.”
I smirk. “Sounds like a menace.”
He smirks back. “She is.”
We stare at each other.
The air stretches between us like elastic. I can feel it. That coiled tension. That pull. The unspoken dare in his eyes.
Touch me.
Try me.
See what happens.
But I don’t move. Not yet.
Because this isn’t just attraction. It’s a game.
And I plan to win.