Chapter 4
Nash
She doesn’t shut up.
She hums while brushing her hair. Whistles while unpacking ornaments. Giggled earlier when the smoke alarm went off because she tried to “roast chestnuts” in my fireplace like this was some kind of cartoon Christmas movie and not real life.
She’s humming again now. Off-key. In my cabin. In my flannel.
Yeah, she’s wearing it.
I came out of the bathroom and found her standing in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, that red sweater of hers folded on the chair, my shirt hanging halfway down her bare thighs.
No pants.
No apology.
Just a smug little grin like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
She does.
Hell, she’s done nothing but test my patience since she barreled into my life two days ago with glitter, lipstick, and a plan.
A plan I should’ve shut down the moment she opened her mouth.
Instead? I let her stay.
Let her take over my space, my rhythm, my peace.
Let her stir something up in me that’s been dead a long damn time.
Now she’s at my stove, barefoot, humming Jingle Bell Rock while stirring hot cocoa like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Try not burning the house down with this batch,” I say.
She doesn’t look up. “Hmm, put on your sassy pants today, huh? You know mountain man, I think you’re gonna like your life wrapped in pine garland with bows by the time I’m done.”
I grunt. “Unlikely.”
She grins. “Just you wait. A little festive cheer never hurt anyone.”
I lean a shoulder against the wall and watch her move. She’s got no business looking that good in my clothes. That flannel’s seen ten years of chain oil, blood, and wood dust. It’s never looked softer than it does clinging to her like that.
“Take it off.”
She freezes.
Turns slowly, the spoon still in her hand, cocoa dripping to the floor.
“Excuse me?”
“The shirt. Take it off. Before I do it for you.”
Her eyes flare. “Wow. Okay. Full caveman now?”
I take a step closer.
“I don’t like sharing.”
“Clearly.”
“That shirt’s mine. It smells like me.”
She sniffs the collar and makes a noise that’s equal parts mockery and something else. Something… huskier.
“Well, I like how you smell.”
I stop in front of her. Close enough to feel the heat from the stove. From her.
“You think this is a game?” I murmur.
“Everything’s a game,” she says. “You just hate that I’m winning.”
My hand fists the fabric at her waist, tugging her toward me. Her breath hitches.
“You want to win?” I growl.
She nods once, bold and breathless.
“Then tell me to stop.”
I lower my mouth to her ear, barely brushing the skin with my lips.
“Tell me to stop thinking about how soft you looked wrapped in that damn blanket last night. Tell me to stop wondering how you taste. Stop imagining how you'd sound when I push you up against that stupid glittery tree and make you moan.”
She trembles.
But she doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
I pull back, just enough to see her face.
Flushed. Eyes wide. Lips parted.
“Noel,” I rasp.
“Yes?”
I study her for a beat. She’s trying to stay calm. Collected. Like she’s not seconds from combusting.
“You keep poking the bear, tinsel girl,” I say, voice dropping to a low rumble. “Eventually, he bites.”
“Maybe I want to be bitten.”
Fuck.
Every muscle in my body tenses.
I step back.
If I don’t, I’m going to pin her to the wall and do everything I’ve been imagining since the moment she burst into my cabin like a fever dream with boots and a plan.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because she’s trouble. Holiday-wrapped, sugar-dusted, cinnamon-scented trouble.
And I don’t need to get addicted to something I can’t keep.
I know I listed the ad for the mail-order bride, but I’ve regretted that impulsive decision every moment since.
That’s the reason I haven’t been answering phone calls or checking messages, never thought a woman would be brazen enough to show up on my doorstep like a stray dog with a curvy body built for sin.
“You should go to bed,” I say tightly. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Decorating your front porch?” she quips.
“Trying to survive me.”
She smiles like that’s exactly what she wants.
Then turns and walks away—slowly—hips swaying beneath my shirt, like she’s daring me to follow.
I don’t.
Not tonight.
But soon.
Soon, she’s going to find out what happens when you push too hard.
And I’m going to find out if I can survive the chaos she brings.