Chapter 7 Noel
Noel
Snow curls against the windows like it’s trying to break in.
The wind moans low, and the coffee pot sputters behind me, filling the cabin with the warm scent of morning. I’m curled on the armchair in one of Nash’s old flannel shirts—buttoned just enough not to be scandalous, but short enough to be… suggestive.
Not on purpose.
Okay, maybe a little.
He hasn’t said anything yet.
But he’s been watching me like a man memorizing his favorite mistake.
Nash stands at the stove now, shirtless again, jeans low on his hips, stirring cocoa like it’s his goddamn military mission. His shoulders roll, taut and scarred and maddeningly sculpted, and when he reaches for the cinnamon shaker—Lord—I almost drop the photo frame in my hand.
It’s the only one I brought. Just a little silver ornament-shaped frame with a picture of my mom and dad in front of our old house in Pasadena, Christmas lights glowing behind them. My dad had a Santa hat on. My mom was trying to pull it off while laughing. I took it the year before they died.
It’s dumb, but I always set it somewhere. Wherever I’m decorating.
I slip it onto the mantel between a ceramic reindeer and a pine garland Nash didn’t notice I snuck up there last night.
Or he pretended not to.
“Is that your family?” he asks.
His voice is deep and quiet, warm as the stove. I jump a little. I didn’t realize he’d moved closer. His footsteps were silent for a man who walks like he could stomp through drywall.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “My parents.”
He sets a mug down next to me. Cocoa with whipped cream, cinnamon, and one of those chocolate-covered spoons I brought from the city. The man grumbles about everything, but apparently still uses my cocoa spoons.
“They look happy,” he says.
“They were.” I sip, letting the heat work through the chill in my chest. “They died in a car accident two years ago. Drunk driver. Christmas Eve.”
His jaw flexes. “Damn.”
“I was supposed to go home that night, but I got stuck at a client’s cocktail party. Stayed too late. By the time I got the call… they were already gone.”
Silence stretches. Heavy. Not uncomfortable—just full.
“I’m sorry, Noel.”
“I know.” I glance at him. “You ever lose anyone?”
His gaze shifts to the fire.
“A few.”
I nod, and for a minute we both just… sit.
The cocoa warms my hands. The storm wails beyond the window, but in here, there’s nothing but fire crackle and the thump of his fingers against the ceramic mug.
“I used to think holidays were everything,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “The lights, the music, the cookies, the traditions. Now… sometimes it just hurts.”
He looks over at me. “So why keep doing it?”
I offer him a soft smile. “Because it made me happy once. It makes other people happy still. It reminds me of who I was before.”
His eyes narrow like he’s looking for pieces of that girl somewhere behind my words. “And who are you now?”
I look down at the cocoa, swirling.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “Maybe that’s why I came here.”
He stands, moves toward the window, looking out at the thick snow still burying the world.
“I missed a lot of holidays, this will be my first Christmas since I completed my service this Spring,” he says.
“Career military man, huh?”
“Yeah, twenty years.”
“What were holidays like for you?” I ask.
“Well, desert doesn’t give a shit about your calendar. Heat instead of snow. No trees, no garland. Just sand, blood, and letters. If you were lucky.”
I glance at him. “Were you lucky?”
He huffs a dry sound. “Depends on the year.”
He doesn’t say more.
He doesn’t have to.
Something inside me softens. “What did you miss the most?”
He turns his head, jaw tense. “The silence. The way snow muffles everything. The sound of someone laughing in the kitchen. Even those stupid-ass sugar cookies with red sprinkles.”
I grin. “You like cookies.”
“Don’t push it.”
I stand slowly, setting the cocoa down, walking toward him with careful steps. Not sure why—maybe because if I move too fast, the moment will vanish like breath on glass.
“I bet you never had someone throw a gingerbread house at you.”
He glances down. “You planning to?”
“Only if you insult my garland again.”
He smirks. Barely. But it’s there.
I stop beside him, close enough that our shoulders brush.
The firelight flickers across his cheek, casting the edge of his profile in gold. And I feel it again—that tight pull in my chest. Like if I let my guard down for a second, he’ll crawl in and take up permanent residence.
“You should keep it up,” he says quietly.
“What?”
He nods toward the photo. “Your parents. The lights. The traditions. The whole holiday tornado.”
“You’re not going to burn it all down when I’m not looking?”
His eyes lock on mine. Serious now. “No.”
We stand there a moment longer. Breathing in time with the storm outside. Something unseen but undeniable humming in the space between us.
Then—
He leans in.
Just a fraction.
My breath catches.
His hand lifts. Hovers near my waist. Doesn’t touch.
“Nash…” I whisper.
His voice is sandpaper and sin. “I’m not gonna kiss you. Not yet.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “Why?”
He studies me like he’s memorizing every inch. “Because when I do, you’re gonna forget every other damn kiss before it.”
I swallow.
Hard.
Then take a step back.
“I should…” I gesture toward the stack of decorations. “I promised the network this place would look like Christmas threw up.”
He nods once.
But his eyes never leave mine.
“Later then, Miss Hart.”
“Later,” I whisper.
And when I finally turn back toward the mantel, the storm howls louder—but inside, everything feels dangerously still.
Like the moment before the kiss.
The moment that changes everything.