Sin Bin with the Scrooge

Prologue

Tessa – Three Years Earlier

No matter how many winters we spent at our family lodge, I could never escape him.

The glass of water sweats against my palm as I hit the switch, bathing the kitchen in darkness.

My eyes adjust slowly before I pad down the hallway toward my bedroom.

The house is quiet—so quiet that every creak of the old floorboards feels like it echoes through the space.

Somewhere downstairs, the faint scent of pine and leftover woodsmoke lingers, mixing with the sweetness of cookies my mom insisted on baking earlier.

I’ve been awake for hours, restless in that way where your body begs for sleep but your mind won’t stop spinning.

My thoughts circle back to the weekend, to how everything feels heavier when we’re all crammed under the same roof for the holidays, to the one person I can’t seem to stop thinking about, even when I know I shouldn’t.

No matter how hard I try, my thoughts drift to Clay Barlowe.

I set the glass on my nightstand and peel back the comforter. My knee bumps the mattress, the cool sheet brushing my leg, when a sharp crash shatters the silence.

I freeze.

The sound is jagged, like glass exploding against concrete, loud enough to rattle through my chest. It’s so close that, for a second, I think maybe I dropped the water, but the glass sits untouched beside me, glowing faintly in the slice of moonlight spilling through the window.

Another noise follows—a groan, low and rough, the kind of wounded sound that doesn’t belong in the middle of a sleeping house.

My heart leaps into my throat.

I rush to the window and pull the curtain back just enough to look outside. The yard is dark, shadows cutting across the snow. Clay is sprawled on the sidewalk. He brushes his hands off like nothing happened, but his slumped shoulders give him away.

The curtain slips from my fingers. My feet are moving before I allow myself a chance to overthink it. Down the hallway, down the stairs, the deadbolt sticking as I twist it hard until it finally gives. The door groans on its hinges as I push it open, then race down the driveway toward him.

“Clay?” My voice cracks in the night. “Are you okay?”

He jerks his head up. Moonlight catches the sharp lines of his face, the shadows beneath his eyes. His hand drags up the back of his neck, and a sound rumbles out of him. For a moment, he doesn’t answer.

Clay has barely tossed a word my way since I arrived. It isn’t unusual—he’s always been quiet around me, almost as if keeping his distance on purpose. But this silence feels heavier in a way I can’t ignore.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been avoiding his brother, Evan, for weeks, letting our on-again, off-again relationship unravel without giving it the closure it needed. From the beginning, it was more about our families pushing us together than anything real between us.

We gave it a try, but we were never right for each other, and we both knew it.

Evan is the one I keep pushing away—the mistake I keep circling back to even though I should know better.

Clay was never an option—seven years older, five years older than Evan, always just beyond reach.

He’s the one who never lets me close. With Evan, the distance is a line I draw.

With Clay, it’s a wall he builds. And that difference slices deeper than I want to admit.

“You should go back inside,” he mutters finally, his voice low and gravelly.

My heart pangs. I know he’s hurting—not just from his recent ACL surgery but also from the loss of the season. The weight of that hangs in the air like a storm cloud he can’t shake.

Hockey has been his whole life, and from the whispers I’ve overheard, the career he busted his ass to create is starting to slip through his fingers.

The sharp stench of vodka clings to the air, sour enough to make my stomach knot. Shards of glass glitter near his boots, the dark patch on his jeans spreading where liquor must have soaked through when the bottle slipped.

I swallow hard as the memories rush in. The first night I started waitressing at Silver Spur was the night after my first college party.

During my shift, a tray slipped from my hands and crashed at my feet, shattering a bottle of vodka.

The sharp tang of alcohol stung the back of my throat, and I swore then I’d never get that drunk again.

I didn’t like the way it stole my control, the way it left me raw and unsteady.

That same scent drifts through the night now, clinging to Clay as he plants his hands on the ground and pushes up. He wobbles, legs unsteady, fighting to find his balance.

“Let me help you,” I whisper, stepping closer as I reach my hand out.

He mutters a curse under his breath, frustration scraping the words raw. His jaw tightens, and I can’t tell if the anger is for me or himself.

But I can’t bring myself to leave. Not when he looks like he’s breaking in slow motion right in front of me.

“Back up. You’re gonna cut yourself.”

He doesn’t move right away. Crouched low with one hand braced against the sidewalk, he has his ass in the air like he’s trying to gather himself.

Finally, he pushes upright, swaying a little before he steadies.

A grin cuts across his face, crooked and boyish and so out of place on the Clay I know that it catches me off guard.

It spreads slow, almost smug, like he’s proud of himself for standing, and somehow, it makes me smile too.

A laugh slips out of me before I can catch it. “Well, looks like you’ve had yourself a night.”

Clay tips his head back in a lazy nod. He lifts his hand in a sloppy salute, his arm loose as he drawls, “You. Are. Riiiight.” Each word drags out, heavier than the last, like he’s savoring the sound of them.

This isn’t the Clay I’ve come to know—the one who disappears into corners, his words clipped. He’s usually serious, broody, with long silences and guarded stares. But this version? He’s unguarded, laughing, grinning at me like we’re sharing some secret no one else could possibly get.

It feels dangerous. Like he’s showing me a piece of himself he never meant for me to see.

The smirk in his eyes sparks something hot in my chest, and I can’t pretend it isn’t there.

“C’mon,” I say softly, almost pleading, holding out my hand.

He stares at it, his brow furrowing as if he’s weighing whether to take it. For a second, I think he’ll leave me hanging and push me into the safe box he’s always kept me in. Then he exhales hard, shrugs like it doesn’t matter, and steps toward me.

He sidesteps the glitter of glass on the ground, stumbles once, then catches himself on me, his fingers sliding into mine.

They’re warm, rough with calluses from years of gripping a hockey stick, and the simple squeeze sends a shiver racing up my arm.

My mind betrays me instantly with thoughts of where else those hands could touch.

My face burns, and I’m grateful he’s too drunk to notice the way my breath hitches.

We reach the stairs, and his boot catches on the edge of the first step. He lurches forward, nearly pulling me down with him.

I plant my feet and thrust out an arm, as if I could actually hold him steady. “Easy.”

Clay barks out a laugh that rumbles from deep in his chest. “Like you could support me. If I go down, you’ll be pinned beneath me.”

The words hang between us, heavier than they should. My stomach dips. I know he didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but my body missed the memo. My cheeks warm, and my lips press together in a thin line, trying to hide the reaction before he catches on.

But he does. Of course he does.

His brow creases. “What?” His voice is rough, confused, like he’s trying to work out a puzzle he didn’t know existed. His eyes narrow, replaying the words in his head. Then something shifts in his expression. His gaze dips, just for a second, to my mouth.

“Why’d you look like you liked the sound of that?”

My heart skips. “Let’s get you inside,” I say quickly, sidestepping the question, attempting to suck air back into my lungs.

He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t let it go either.

Instead of taking my hand again, he drops his heavy arm across my shoulders.

His weight presses into me, his body so close I can feel the heat radiating through his shirt.

The burn of vodka clings to him, softened by soap and that familiar woodsy scent that is purely Clay.

Step by step, we climb together, his boot scuffing, my shoulder tucked tight beneath his. Every time his hip bumps mine and every brush of his breath against my hair, it feels like the air between us crackles.

He doesn’t let go. Not as we shuffle through the front door, down the hall, and past the familiar photos I’ve grown up seeing on every trip, lining the wall.

Our families, framed side by side, from Christmas mornings to summer lake trips to birthdays with too many candles.

All the ways we’re supposed to belong with each other, but never like this.

My pulse hammers as I guide him toward the bedroom that the Barlowes have always claimed whenever they stayed here. His hand slips once at my waist, catching to steady himself. My breath hitches too but for a different reason entirely.

And still, he doesn’t let go.

“Are you coming to bed with me?” he mumbles, his words slurred.

I blink at him, my laughter breaking the tension in my chest. “No. I just didn’t want you face-planting again. You’d probably take out a wall this time.”

He hums low in his throat, the sound thoughtful like he’s chewing over what I said. Then he mutters, almost to himself, “You can’t blame a guy for hoping.”

Finally, his heavy arm slips from around my shoulders.

He sways once, catching himself with a hand against the wall, but his eyes never leave mine.

The dim light from the hallway glints off them, softening the edges of his face.

It’s a side of Clay I don’t get to see often.

He’s usually all stone walls and silence, impossible to read.

But now, in this suspended moment, he feels cracked open, raw in a way that steals my breath.

Clay lets out a low chuckle, rough in his throat. “I’m probably going to regret this in the morning.”

For a second, I think he means the drinking. Then his hand drops, brushing against mine before threading our fingers, curling tight like he’s afraid I’ll slip away. My lungs seize. Before I can even process, he gives a slight tug, pulling me with him as his back presses against the wall.

“You never answered me,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like he’s forcing the words out carefully. His hand slides to my waist, his thumb pressing against my hip bone as if to anchor me there. “Did you like the thought of being pinned beneath me? Am I wrong, or is that not what you want?”

My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat loud in my ears.

He shifts, widening his stance enough to draw me between his legs.

In an instant, I’m pressed to him, my body trapped in the cage of his heat and strength.

My fingers fist the front of his shirt, clinging like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

He’s still in the clothes he wore to Christmas dinner earlier—dark jeans and a plaid button-up over a white T-shirt, a silver chain with his number 22 glinting against his skin.

My eyes trace the line of buttons straining across his chest, the fabric stretched tight over his muscle, and heat curls low in my stomach.

For a moment, all I can think about is the solid wall of him so close, and the way his presence presses in until it feels like there’s no space left to breathe.

The air between us turns heavy, weighted with everything unsaid. My thighs press together before I can stop myself, and even that slight shift drags a low groan from him.

His breath fans across my cheek. My lips part.

“You’re not wrong,” I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. My voice is shaky, full of everything I’ve been too afraid to admit. “I’m here, Clay. I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip tightens, fingers digging into my hip, his other hand sliding higher, weaving into my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my face toward his. His eyes lock onto mine, dark and burning. For the first time, I feel like he’s letting me see all the things he’s fought to hide.

“It is wrong,” he mutters. “Wrong for how bad I want you…for how long I’ve wanted you. I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop.”

The words shatter something inside me, and before I can breathe, his mouth crashes into mine.

The world blurs. Right and wrong blur. All that exists is the taste of him and the feeling of his body against me. The press of his lips is rough and hungry, like he’s been holding back for too long. My body molds to his, every nerve alive, every inch of me aware of the heat radiating from him.

When he finally tears himself away, his forehead drops against mine. We’re both breathing hard, gasps scraping against the space between us. His voice comes low, ragged, like gravel dragged across stone. “I’ve never craved someone the way I crave you.”

The confession sears through me. My hand slides higher into his hair. I tug gently, dragging my nails across his scalp, and his breath stutters. I pull him back, our mouths colliding again. This kiss is slower, deeper, and just as desperate, but edged with something we don’t dare say.

The world outside this hallway doesn’t matter.

Christmas lights glow faintly through the window, the scent of pine lingers in the air, and the framed photos along the wall fade into the background.

The years of family trips, the history between Evan and me—all of it disappears, and I know I’m crossing a line I can’t come back from.

All that’s left is Clay. His mouth. His hands. His weight pinning me against the wall, and the dizzying truth that I’ve wanted this longer than I’ve ever admitted.

Sin tastes sweeter than it should. And even as every voice in my head screams that this can’t last, I can’t bring myself to regret a single second.