Chapter 4
Aspen
The trees dance in the wind, which howls and rattles against the sides of my cabin like a bad omen. A storm is coming. It’s already here, and I can feel the chill in my bones, the sharp bite of the air on my exposed skin.
I pull the windows shut and latch them. Winter is unpredictable here in the mountains, and I’d rather not be stuck in a blizzard with an empty fridge.
Moving quickly through my house, I grab my coat off the hook by the door, tug on my boots, and step outside.
The scent of frost mixed with pine lingers in the windy air as I walk towards my truck, jump in, and drive into town.
The ride is quick and uneventful, even though the sky is a threatening gray color.
Still just flurries, but I know more is coming as I pull into the grocery store parking lot.
I’m met with a madhouse when I step in. People are everywhere, scrambling for last-minute groceries, carts jamming into each other along the aisles, kids running around with candy canes.
Gritting my teeth, I do my best to navigate through the unending chaos, grabbing just the essentials—coffee, milk, eggs, cheese, a couple of frozen pizzas—being quick and efficient.
I’m about to grab some granola bars and cereal from the last aisle before I check out when someone calls out my name.
“Aspen!”
The voice is familiar, and although I don’t spend a ton of time in town, I would know it anywhere.
Jesse Ricin, Oliver’s son, stands there, grinning at me like a long-lost relative.
I wouldn’t need a DNA test to confirm his paternity.
Between his stubborn streak and the fact that he’s the spitting image of his dad, no one would ever doubt it.
“Dad said you don’t wanna do dinner this year, just like always.”
I reach for and toss a box of cereal into my cart, then move along. “Sorry. Not really my thing.”
He follows me. “Come on, man. Just one night. Anna’s gonna make ham too, alongside the pot roast.”
I shake my head and keep wheeling my cart along. “Not interested. Plus, there’s a storm rolling in.”
Jesse doesn’t give up. He picks up pace behind me, reaching for the same granola bars that I do. It’s the last box, and I swipe it away with a chuckle. “You should know that you make it hard for people to be nice to you.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the goal, you know.” I reach for a different pack and throw it in. There’s no such thing as too much ready-to-eat food in a storm. Never know if the power will go out.
He huffs in frustration. “Look, I understand you hate Christmas. You hate people. But—”
Undeterred by his babbling, I continue my mission, leaving the aisle and heading for the register, tossing some sweets into the cart on the way. Taking an extra bag, I throw it at him. “Here. Eat this. It will help you stop talking.”
Jesse stares at the candy in his hand like I gave him a live grenade. “Are you serious?”
“Very.” I take it from him, rip it open, and shove a few pieces into my mouth. “Like this.”
He shrugs away his earlier hesitation and pops a gumdrop into his mouth. “Bribery is a crime, you know that, right? Even if it’s just candy?”
“Yeah.” I nod, fetching my wallet from my back pocket. “So is annoying the hell out of me.”
The checkout line is moving at a glacial speed. “Fuck. Should have done this shit earlier.” I need to get away from Oliver’s mini-me spawn.
With an annoyed sigh, he throws up his hands, shrugs, then blessedly goes back to his shopping.
It takes forever to reach the front of the line. The cashier, a woman I only recognize by face, scans my items lazily, still chatting with the older man ahead of me about his grandchildren.
As soon as the man bids her farewell with a tip, she turns her focus to me. “Storm’s gonna be bad, don’t you think?”
She scans my eggs, and I grunt at her rough handling as she thumps them down. “You hunkering down?”
“Yeah,” I try to end the conversation. She gives me a look, squinting her eyes. “Having a solo Christmas?”
I exhale, tired of evading her nosy questions. Between Oliver, Jesse, and now this woman, my social battery is at an all-time low. “Yep.”
“Yeah, I figured.” She smirks. “It’s all over your face.”
I swipe my card at her on her gesture, take my bags, and nod to her “Merry Christmas.”
When I don’t reply with the same sentiment, she snorts. “Yeah, Grinch.”
Rolling my eyes, I can’t get out of there fast enough.
Way too much bullshit for a simple grocery outing.
The bags are heavy, nearly overflowing, but I heft them easily and stomp toward the exit before I’m pulled into any more conversations.
Snow is coming down harder now, and the urgency to get home takes hold.
Adjusting the bags, I try to find my keys.
Distracted by my search, it’s too late to dodge out of the way when I see her coming. An indistinct blur of motion, a scent of something floral floats up my nostrils, then a loud smack.
A soft body collides with my chest hard enough that my bags fly into the air. All the food I painstakingly picked out scatters on the wet ground, the boxes soaking, the oranges bouncing off, and the eggs… Oh no!
The sickening crunch and splatter of them shattering forces a low growl out of me. I turn toward the cause of the disaster. It’s a woman bundled in a thick red coat with an armful of poinsettias and a mistletoe clutched to her chest.
She gasps, her dark eyes widening in surprise. “Oh, my God! I’m really sorry.”
I scowl at her surprise. Any fool knows to be careful, especially on a snowy eve such as this. “Watch where you’re going.”
She crouches, her hands reaching for my groceries in an attempt to salvage them. “Let me help—”
Her voice finally hits me as the initial anger dissipates, breathless and very feminine. She looks up for a second at me, probably wondering when I’ll join in, but I don’t move.
She’s obscenely beautiful. I mean, I don’t know what she is.
Stunning? Yes. But it’s much more than that.
The cold gives her cheeks a flushed look, parting her lips so every breath she exhales is foggy in the freezing air.
Her coat is snug, allowing her to bend over, yet allowing me to appreciate her delicate curves, which I shouldn’t be staring at.
Immediately, my mind imagines her on her knees before me. Mouth open, waiting to receive my cock. My dick twitches in my pants, and I’m shocked. It’s been way too damn long since I’ve even jerked off; practically living the life of a monk for the past few years.
Shaking my head, I snap out of the unholy thoughts.
It doesn’t matter how fucking sexy she is.
She ruined my groceries, and there’s a storm coming.
There’s no time for hot women and fantasies of things I don’t deserve.
I bend and grab the box she’s reaching for, just before she can get it. “Don’t bother. I’ve got it.”
Her hands touch the loaf of bread at the same time mine do, and our fingers brush lightly. A live wire of electricity zaps up my arm, sending quick jolts to my brain.
It’s terrifying how such small contact—a graze of her soft fingers against my rough ones—can generate such a strong current. She jerks back, blinks up at me, clearly feeling it too.
“I didn’t mean to…” she hesitates.
I scoop up the last of the groceries into the bags, shake off my tension, and straighten to my full height. A cold wind whips down the street. I don’t have time for this. “Then you probably shouldn’t go barreling into people.”
The shock hits her, her lips parting to reply. “I wasn’t —”
I hold out a piece of the greenery that fell from her arms. Glancing down, I notice what it is and frown. Fucking Christmas. “Here. You dropped this.”
She blinks at the offending mistletoe in my hand, still in shock. “You should probably hold on to it tight. You seem like the type to believe in the Christmas holiday magic crap.”
Her cheeks flush in anger. And for the first time, I really look at her face. She’s… pretty. Annoyingly so. Dark curls peaking from her Christmas-themed knit hat, her luscious skin wrapped in the red coat that brings out her skin tone. But the moment fades as quickly as it comes.
Her jaw tightens. “You know what? Forget that I was sorry. Have a great day. And I hope you get stuck in the storm.”
She turns on her heels and strides away; the shoes slipping in the snow. For the briefest of moments, I feel a sharp pang of guilt, then force it down.
Briefly, I wonder if I should follow her, make sure she doesn’t break her foolish neck in those damn heels, but I toss that thought away as quickly as it comes. Women are distractions I try to avoid. I hasten to my truck, ignoring the continued sting of the piece of mistletoe I picked up.
I hate this time of year.