Chapter 11
Ruby
The dishes are stacked in the sink, the smell of bacon still drifting through the cabin. My heart’s finally slowed to something resembling normal, but it doesn’t last.
“I’ll wash up,” I say.
Beckett shakes his head. “No way.”
“Why not? I’m a very responsible houseguest.”
He leans one hip against the counter, arms folded. “Because you already paid rent.”
I raise a brow. “With what?”
His mouth quirks. “Disaster. Company. Bacon triage.”
I laugh. “Sounds like a fair exchange.”
He studies me for a few seconds, that quiet intensity back in his eyes. Then, without warning, he asks, “Are you glad you crashed your van, Ruby?”
The question lands deep like a snowball that somehow hits the heart instead of the chest.
“Hmm.” I pretend to think, tapping my chin. “Still waiting to find out the true answer to that one.”
He tilts his head. “Want a hint?”
Before I can answer, he closes the distance. His hands slide around my waist, warm and sure, drawing me flush against him. The breath leaves my lungs. The kiss starts soft, then deepens—slow, deliberate, the kind that leaves me dizzy and certain all at once.
His embrace is absolute. Solid. Like stepping inside the safest, strongest arms I’ve ever known. My palms find his chest, the heat of him soaking through the flannel. He smells like cedar smoke and coffee, like the kind of man who builds shelters and keeps promises.
When he finally pulls back, he stays close enough that his breath brushes my ear.
“The water should be hot,” he murmurs. “If you want to take advantage of it.”
My pulse trips. “That an invitation?”
“Maybe.” His lips graze my temple. “Never know when the lights might flicker again.” He pauses, voice dipping lower. “And whether they do or not…” His hand trails lightly up my spine, settling at the base of my neck. “…I’m ready to make the most of whatever time we’ve got.”
My brain misfires entirely. The man could read the weather or start a fire with one match, but it’s the quiet in his voice that undoes me.
“Beckett…” I whisper, but it comes out more like a plea than a warning.
He smiles, that half-grin that should be illegal. “Go on,” he says softly. “Before I decide the shower’s a two-person operation.”
I retreat before he makes good on that threat. My knees barely cooperate.
Steam curls out of the bathroom as I turn the tap, and for a moment I just stand there, palms on the counter, staring at my reflection. My lips are still kiss-swollen, my cheeks pink from more than the heat. I look like a woman who’s been reminded what being alive feels like.
The water fogs the mirror and erases the proof, but I still feel him everywhere—the steady weight of his hands, the low rumble of his voice. I let his flannel slip off my shoulders and step beneath the spray.
The heat steals my breath. I tilt my head back, letting it run through my hair, down my spine, washing away the last few hours of storm and fear. What it doesn’t wash away is Beckett.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him—standing at the stove, laughing, the quiet strength behind his restraint. There’s something dangerously tender about a man who holds you like he’s protecting both of you from the world.
I brace my palms against the tile and whisper into the steam, “What are you doing, Ruby?”
The answer comes easily now. Falling.
I don’t know what happens when the storm clears or when the roads open, but right now, I allow myself to immerse my body, mind and soul into this feeling.
The water slows to a gentle patter before I shut it off. I wrap a towel around myself, draw a shaky breath, and smile at the fogged-up version of a woman about to walk back out there … to see if the mountain man who kissed her like a promise still looks at her the same way.
I take my time, which is uncharacteristic, but I want every inch of my skin to remember this day. I dry my hair, wrap the big towel around my body and tiptoe to Beckett’s spare bedroom-slash-office where some of my inventory waits.
After a moment’s mischievous hesitation, I grab the Santa themed panties with the peppermint charm and a short red velvet Santa robe with white fur trim.
The IRS is going to fine or jail me for this.
The cabin is quiet when I step out, except for the faint tick of the fireplace and the hum of Beckett at the kitchen table, hands busy with a battered notebook and a mug bigger than my fist. He looks up, eyes scanning my length of bare thigh and the ridiculous white faux fur cuffs at my wrists.
His jaw flexes, but the rest of his body doesn’t move.
There is a tension in the room so absolute it feels like a third person present.
“Is there a dress code I missed?” Beckett asks, straight-faced, but the low rasp in his voice gives him away.
“Mmm.” I fuss with the trim on my robe, then turn a slow circle like I’m on a very exclusive runway. “I didn’t want your comments section thinking Mrs. Claus was a one-panty-wonder.”
He stands, steps around the table, and stops just shy of touching me. The urge to close that distance nearly short-circuits my self-control. I stay perfectly still, waiting to see what he’ll do. My heart thumps so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
Beckett’s eyes do a slow tour, starting at my face, then lower, where the edge of the robe barely covers the Santa panties and my thighs.
The air between us is a livewire, every inhale an invitation, every exhale a dare.
I wonder briefly if he’s going to say something funny, like he did with the bacon.
Maybe he’ll roast me for my fashion sense, or maybe he’ll pretend he’s immune to the visual.
But he just watches, jaw set, gaze scrolling over every detail like he’s memorizing me for later.
“You look …” he starts, then shakes his head.
I tilt my chin. “Go on. Critique the ensemble. It’s the shop’s holiday showcase special.”
He doesn’t smile. “It’s not the outfit. It’s you in it.”
He steps closer so that I have to tilt my head back to keep his gaze. His hands curl, then uncurl at his sides. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he says, almost a growl.
I blink once, stunned, then laugh just to break the intensity. “That’s not a complaint, is it?”
“Not remotely.”
The feeling between us is thick and fizzling at the edges. I fidget with the tie of the robe, waiting for him to make the next move. This man can start a fire with two sticks and a look, but when faced with a girl in candy-cane lingerie, he’s suddenly all hesitation and hunger.
“Do you want me to change?” I ask, raising a brow.
He shrugs, just once. “Not unless you want me to lose the remaining self-control I have.”
I reach for a comeback, but my words are gone. The rush in my veins and his eyes holding mine are the only two things I’m able to concentrate upon. I hold that eye contact, letting him see everything — yes, the nerves and the dare. Because the truth beneath my fear is that I want this. I want him.