Chapter 2
Micah
When Nate called, he made it sound simple.
“Just a favor,” he said. “Keep her safe. Lay low. Few days, max.”
What he didn’t say was she would be Ellie Bright. That she’d come blowing up my front porch like a damn snowstorm in lip gloss and red wool.
I thought maybe she’d cancel. Most people don’t like the idea of living off-grid with a man whose idea of hospitality is not pointing a rifle at you when you knock.
But no—she showed up smiling, with boots not made for the snow, a suitcase she could barely drag, and eyes that looked right through me like she wasn’t afraid of a thing.
Too pretty.
Too cheerful.
Too much.
And now she’s in my cabin, moving around like she’s lived here for years.
She’s currently sitting on the edge of my couch in a ridiculous Christmas sweater that says Never Sleigh Never, sipping cocoa from the mug I gave her because I didn’t know what else to do with my hands.
I didn’t even have cocoa until she unpacked.
Apparently, she brought her own. With marshmallows.
I’m watching her.
I don’t mean to, but I am.
The way her lips wrap around the edge of the mug. The way her lashes lower when she blows on it. She hums when she drinks. Hums. Like some little human comfort engine.
Jesus.
“Something wrong?” she asks, catching me mid-stare.
“No,” I grunt, turning back to the fire. “Just thinking.”
“About which part of me annoys you the most?”
She’s teasing, but it lands closer than she thinks.
“All of it,” I say.
She snorts. “Charming.”
I try to ignore the way her laughter slips under my skin like heat. Like it belongs there.
“You want to explain the marshmallows?” I ask.
“They’re emotional support marshmallows.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t judge,” she says, kicking off her boots and curling up on my couch like it’s hers. “You strike me as the type of man who eats canned chili in silence.”
I do. And now I’m annoyed that she’s right.
“You sure you’re safe here?” she asks, suddenly serious. “Whoever’s been leaving those packages—I don’t think they’re just trying to scare me. They know too much.”
I watch the way her fingers grip the mug. The way her smile slips.
“I’m sure,” I say. “I checked the perimeter twice. You’re locked down tight.”
“And you?” she asks, voice a little softer. “You do this often? Babysit people like me?”
“No,” I say. “Just the ones Nate guilts me into.”
“Lucky me,” she mutters.
She sets the mug down and leans back against the couch, her head resting on the arm. I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t let myself see the way her shirt rides up just enough to show the smooth skin of her hip. But I do.
Her eyes flick up and catch mine.
Something in the air tightens.
“Micah,” she says slowly, “are you always this broody, or is it a holiday thing?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My jaw’s already locked, and my hands are fists on my thighs because if I relax even a little, I might reach for her.
She’s fire and softness. She’s everything I gave up on a long time ago.
But damn if I don’t want to touch her.
“You don’t have to act like I’m made of glass,” she says, her voice low now. “You can talk to me. I don’t break easy.”
“I know,” I say, and the words come out rough.
She shifts, slowly uncurling herself, until she’s sitting closer. Too close. Close enough I can smell vanilla and whatever floral thing clings to her sweater.
“You keep looking at me like I’m a problem,” she says.
“You are a problem,” I answer.
Her breath hitches. I catch it. Track it.
But I don’t move. Not yet.
“You want me,” she says. No fear. Just fact.
“I’m trying not to.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth. Then rises again. Her cheeks are flushed—not from the fire.
“Don’t,” I warn, but it’s broken. Useless.
“Why not?” she whispers. “Because I’m sunshine and you’re all thunderclouds?”
“Because if I kiss you,” I growl, “I’m not going to stop at kissing.”
Her lips part. She doesn’t flinch. She leans in.
I’m going to hell for this.
My hand is in her hair before I know it, tilting her head up as my mouth crushes hers. She gasps, and I take it. Take all of it. Her lips are soft, her body warm, and when she presses into me, I forget every reason I had to stay away.
I pull her into my lap, her legs straddling mine, and she fits like she was made for this. Made for me. My hands roam her waist, her back, sliding under her sweater just to feel the heat of her skin.
She’s not backing off. She’s meeting me move for move, tongue for tongue. When she moans, I lose control.
But she pulls back first, just enough to catch her breath.
“We’re not supposed to do this,” she says, eyes dark and wide.
“No,” I say, gripping her hips. “We’re not.”
“Should we stop?”
I stare at her, heart thundering.
Eventually, I say, “Probably.”
But I don’t let her go.
And she doesn’t move.
Because we both know what’s coming next.