Chapter 7
seven
KIT
Blue Ridge Mountains - Fleet Foxes
“Would you like a coffee?” Jonah shouted, his voice echoing down the short hallway.
I didn’t answer at first, my attention fixed on the guest bedroom in front of me.
His rental was drastically different from mine.
My cottage was decorated with quilted blankets and cross-stitch decorations, while the lodge next door was smart and modern.
A carpeted downstairs hallway proudly displayed two bedrooms, both with neatly made-up double beds. Upstairs, I was yet to explore.
I stood at the end of the guest bedroom, staring at two towels folded at the end of the bed. It unsettled me. Too neat. Too prepared. Like he’d been expecting company but nobody had actually visited.
How long had he been alone?
“Is it warm enough here? You can turn the heating up if you need to.” He appeared in the doorway behind me, his cheeks still tinged pink from the cold, a shirt collar peeking out from the top of a festive jumper. On the front was a cross-stitched polar bear carrying a set of skis.
It weirdly made me like him more.
I should have looked away. Instead, my gaze caught on the flex of his fingers where they gripped the doorframe, like he wasn’t sure if he was stepping in or staying put.
I’d never been one for a knight in shining armour. But a knight in a close-knit jumper saving my arse? I’d take that.
“It’s great, thanks,” I said, moving my suitcase to the bottom of the bed. When I’d agreed to stay with him, I’d barely packed in the rush – just shoved everything back in, practically sitting on the damn thing to get it closed.
I forced a polite smile, trying to bury my disappointment. This trip was supposed to be a break from all the drama in London. Instead, it had followed me here.
“So…that coffee?” he asked again.
“Can I have a cuppa instead?” I managed, needing a moment alone. “Black, no sugar.”
“No problem,” he said, but his gaze lingered on me for a second longer than necessary before he disappeared down the hall. I waited until I heard his footsteps on the stairs before collapsing backward onto the bed.
Maybe I should still find a way back home. A train. A bus. I’d wait on the roof for Santa’s sleigh at this point. I’d had at least ten men – and one member of royalty – brag to me about immediate access to a private jet. Maybe it was time to call them up.
One glance out the window, at the snow falling softly onto bright green pine trees, told me how unlikely that scenario was.
And that was without it being Christmas Eve.
All those millionaires were probably tucked up somewhere warm and toasty, clearly smarter than I was.
It was then that I resigned myself to sticking it out here, at least until the snow cleared or I found someone willing to drive me to the nearest train station.
With a sigh, I pushed up and made my way upstairs.
I nearly held my breath as I took in the living room and the view beyond it.
The room was a vast, open-planned space, lined with pine furnishings.
Two plush sofas framed the lounge area, while the kitchen tucked around the corner was separated by a breakfast bar.
The real showstopper was the view: a massive window stretching the length of the living room, framing a panorama of snow-draped mountains that cupped the land like a bowl.
A vast forest of frost-tipped trees spilled across the slopes, and, nestled in the valley below, the village sat quiet and postcard-perfect. It was breathtaking.
And then there were the Christmas decorations.
A real fir tree sat in the corner, wrapped with colourful tinsel and glittering baubles, bringing that slightly sweet, woody scent indoors. Fairy lights curled around the balcony railing, complete with a glowing LED outline of a snowman, a slightly creepy smile across his face.
“Did you decorate all this willingly?” I asked, rounding the corner to find Jonah at the kitchen counter, his back turned. “Or did the Ghost of Christmas Past hold you at gunpoint?”
His eyes flickered over me for a second before he smirked. “It makes me happy.”
I slid onto one of the chairs at the breakfast bar, taking a moment to appreciate the other view: broad back, strong arms, easy movements. Even through his ridiculous jumper I could make out the fine lines of his back, the way his arms moved with precision.
Curse those tennis arms.
“And when it gets dark at, like, three in the afternoon here,” he continued, “I needed a little festive joy.”
I made a noise of agreement, understanding his point. It was barely mid-afternoon and the sun was already heading towards the horizon. I watched as he opened a container marked ‘Tea’ and dropped a bag into a mug. Then, to my horror, he went to the tap, pouring water into the mug.
“What are you doing?” I asked as the scene unfolded, Jonah beelining for the microwave and placing the mug inside.
He hesitated, glancing between me and the crime he was about to commit. “Making you a cuppa?” he said, mimicking my accent.
“In the microwave?”
He looked vaguely defensive. “That’s how you make it.”
“Maybe in hell.” I closed the gap between us, snatching the mug away. “Where’s the kettle?”
“Kettle?” His blank expression told me everything I needed to know.
“Oh my God. Move.” I dumped the ‘tea’ into the sink before crouching down and yanking open cupboards. I found the stainless-steel appliance and held it up triumphantly.
Jonah leaned against the counter. “I always wondered what that was.”
I shoved the empty vessel at him. “Fill it a quarter up.”
“You know”—he turned towards the sink—“I’ve never understood you Brits and your obsession with this murky brown water.”
He passed it back, our fingers brushing for the briefest second.
“Have you ever considered that might be because you all make it wrong?” I teased, holding his gaze. His eyes were a deep brown, rich, like melted chocolate.
“Funnily, that never crossed my mind.”
Rolling my eyes, I switched on the kettle, the familiar buzz in the air as the water was brought to a boil.
Turning back, my attention was caught on Jonah, watching as he poured from the coffee pot, his jumper sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing those forearms.
Unfairly strong forearms.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Can’t believe you’ve been in Scotland for months and no one’s taught you how to make a proper brew.”
“I’m not usually hosting guests.” He leaned back against the counter, sipping from his mug.
I tried not to let my eyes linger. But, damn, he made it difficult. The way his forearms flexed, that sneaking smile, the confidence in how he held himself.
The worst part? He wasn’t even trying.
“Now I understand why,” I muttered.
He gasped, feigning shock. “And here I was thinking we were becoming friends.”
I looked at him plainly, my gaze flickering over his face for a second too long. Long enough for him to notice.
His smirk deepened.
Shit.
I grabbed the tea container, forcing my expression to stay neutral. “Friends don’t microwave cups of tea.”
Jonah hummed, taking another slow sip of coffee. “Mm. So, what do friends do then?”
His voice was casual. However, there was a hint of heat behind the words that made my lower stomach tighten.
“Well, for starters,” I said, clearing my throat, “they don’t commit crimes in the kitchen.”
I dropped the teabag in, reaching for the kettle as Jonah stepped closer. For a brief second, his head nearly pressed to my shoulder; he was that close, peering over me.
I froze. The kettle had boiled. The mug was waiting. And yet, my brain blanked.
“What are you doing, tennis boy?” I asked.
“I’m learning how you like your tea,” he said, his thick eyelashes catching on my attention.
The scent of his aftershave lingered in the air between us.
And still, I forgot to move, mesmerized by having him so up close.
He was so beautiful, it pulled me, whether it was the roughness of the unshaven shadow of stubble, or the depth in his eyes, or the playfulness he exuded, or all of the fucking above and then some. I liked to look at it.
I liked it a lot.
“You’re staring,” he whispered, breaking me from the spell.
Heat rushed to my face. What is happening? “I am not.” I yanked the kettle off its base, turning away to pour the water, hoping he wouldn’t see how warm my face had gotten.
Jonah chuckled, low and smug.
I exhaled sharply, focusing again on my task and burying deep down all the details I had noticed about his face: the indent of a crinkle between his brows; the dark flecks of near-black in his irises, like freckles; the apparent softness of his hair my fingers ached to push through.
I shoved them all down and instead coughed to clear my throat.
“Now let me show you how a Brit makes a cuppa before you embarrass yourself with that microwave shit.”