Chapter 3 #2
"I’m impressed." I hop up onto one of the bar stools. "So, Deputy Giles, what else can you do that might surprise me?"
"Depends." He grabs some bowls from the cabinets. "What do you think you know about me?"
"Let's see." I tick off on my fingers. "Type A personality, probably alphabetizes your spice rack, secretly loves Christmas despite playing it cool, has gorgeous tattoos hidden under your respectable policeman exterior, and definitely has a wild side you keep locked down tight."
He pauses, knife hovering over the loaf of bread. "That...might be somewhat accurate."
"I'm observant." I grin. "Your turn. What do you think you know about me?"
"You use humor to deflect when things get too real.
You're grieving someone you loved deeply.
And you're younger than me but more emotionally intelligent than most women your age.
" He places a plate of sliced bread and butter on the island.
“Also, you're trying very hard to figure out what you want to do with your life. "
The accuracy stings, but in a good way. Like he actually sees me.
"Show-off," I mutter.
"Fifteen years of reading people." He ladles the rustic soup into bowls. "Comes with the badge."
He takes a seat and we eat. He tells me about bizarre calls he's responded to (apparently once he got a call about a "suspicious-looking item" in a yard, which turned out to be a potato). I almost choked laughing so hard.
And I tell him about the most ridiculous antiques people have tried to sell Aunt Meredith (cursed Victorian dolls are a hard pass).
It's comfortable. Natural. Exactly the kind of light-hearted conversation I've been missing since Dad died.
That thought makes my chest ache. "How about a hot cocoa before we start decorating the trees?"
"We’re a little off-schedule already. It's 1 p.m."
"We can make up the time later. You’re flexible, remember?” I grin. “I mean, it's never too early for hot chocolate." I walk over to the coffee bar, which apparently also stocks hot cocoa supplies because of course it does. "Besides, I make the best hot chocolate you've ever tasted."
"Bold claim,” he remarks, cleaning up our dishes.
"I stand by it." I pull out the cocoa powder, milk, and a suspicious number of flavor options. "My dad taught me. He was very particular about his hot chocolate."
Kade moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can smell his light cologne. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. He said the secret is..." I trail off, distracted by the way Kade’s forearm flexes as he reaches for mugs. There's a mountain peak rendered in exquisite detail just below his elbow. "Sorry, what was I saying?"
"The secret to hot chocolate?" His lips twitch.
"Right. Real cocoa powder, never the mix. A pinch of salt to enhance the chocolate. And you have to bloom the cocoa in hot milk before adding the rest." I measure ingredients as he watches. "He'd make it every Christmas Eve. We'd sit by the tree and talk about our favorite moments from the year."
"That sounds really special."
"It was." I whisk the mixture, focusing on the steady motion. "First Christmas without him was hard. Last year was worse somehow. Like the grief was supposed get better, but it just…didn’t."
"Grief doesn't work on a schedule." His voice is gentle. "I had to learn that the hard way. My grandfather died five years ago. I still sometimes pick up the phone to call him."
I look up at him. "I’ve done that, too."
"Pops was...everything. Taught me to fish, how to throw a punch, how to treat people with respect." Kade leans against the counter. "Christmas was his favorite holiday. He'd get so excited about it, like a kid. I think that's why I love it now. Reminds me of him."
"That's beautiful." I pour the cocoa into mugs, topping them with excessive amounts of whipped cream. "He'd be proud of you. Setting up this whole Christmas for your family."
"Hope so." He accepts his mug, our fingers brushing. "Your dad would be proud of you too. Creating holiday magic for other people."
The words hit me square in the chest, unexpected and achingly kind. I blink hard against the sudden burn of tears.
"Shit, I'm sorry—" Kade starts.
"No, it's..." I wave a hand. "It's good. Thank you. I just..."
I turn too quickly, reaching for a napkin, and my elbow catches his mug. Hot chocolate sloshes everywhere—mostly all over Kade's shirt.
"Oh my god!" I grab napkins, pressing them uselessly against his soaked chest. "I'm so sorry, I'm such a klutz, I—"
"Nia, it's fine." He says, pulling the Henley over his head in one smooth motion.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
Tattoos cover his entire torso. Continuations of the mountains and constellations over the one side of his ribs. A compass rose spreads across his sternum. More dates and coordinates wind around his sides, and designs that disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans.
And then I see the piercings.
Barbells through both nipples, glinting in the light.
I feel like I’m drooling.
"Your nipples are pierced," I say, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter has ceased functioning.
Kade glances down like he forgot about them. “Oh, yeah. Got them done a while ago."
"They're..." I swallow hard. "Unexpected."
"Most things about me are, apparently." There's something challenging in his tone. He reaches for paper towels, giving me an unobstructed view of his ink and metal and muscled abdomen. "Let’s clean up this mess."
The way he says "mess" sends heat pooling low in my belly. This feels like a test. Like he's waiting to see if I'll run or rise to the challenge.
I've never backed down from a challenge in my life.
"Yes, Officer." I grab a towel and step closer—close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
His eyes go dark, pupils dilating.
I gulp and press the towel against his chest, ostensibly cleaning but really just wanting to touch him. My fingers trace the edge of a mountain peak on his ribs.
"Nia." My name sounds like a warning. "You can't—we can't—"
"Can't what?" I look up at him through my lashes, emboldened by the way his jaw is clenched tight, the tension vibrating through him. "Clean up hot chocolate?"
"You know what I mean."
My hand drifts lower, following the path of ink across his abs.
Something flashes in his eyes—heat and want. For one perfect second, I think he might close that distance, pin me against the counter, and kiss me until I forget who I am.
Instead, he catches my wrist, his grip firm, but gentle. "I'm thirty-six. You just graduated college. And I'm paying you to decorate my cabin."
He releases me, stepping back and putting crucial distance between us. "I should go get another shirt."
He grabs the stained Henley and heads upstairs.
The rest of the afternoon is torture of the most exquisite kind.
We decorate in charged silence. Every time our hands brush passing ornaments, every time I catch him watching me, every time he steadies the ladder with his hands bracketing my hips—it all builds and builds until I feel like I might combust.
By the time the sun starts setting, the great room tree is halfway done and we're both exhausted. I sink onto the sofa, pulling my knees up to my chest.
"I should probably go," I say, but don't make a move.
"Probably." Kade stays by the tree, adding the last string of lights. "It's getting dark."
"Mmm." I watch the fireplace, the flames hypnotic. "Just five more minutes."
"Take your time."
The warmth seeps into my bones, the stress of the day catching up with me. Just five more minutes turns into ten, then fifteen.
The last thing I remember is Kade's voice saying something about more lights, soft and distant.
When I surface briefly, someone's draped a blanket over me. The cabin is quiet except for the crackling fire. Through half-closed eyes, I see Kade sitting in the chair across from me, his face illuminated by his laptop screen.
He looks up, catches me watching. "Go back to sleep, Christmas angel."
I should go home to my own bed.
Instead, I burrow deeper into the blanket that smells like cedar and pine and pull the soft fleece up to my chin, drifting back under to dreams of mountain peaks that have nothing to do with Deepwood.