Chapter Four
Tessa
Three hours in a car with Clay is enough to wear anyone down.
Every word out of me is met with a clipped response, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road like the storm didn’t exist. I sat there wound tight, listening to the wipers and my own heartbeat, fighting the urge to fill the silence like I always do.
Finally, the cabin breaks through the snow. My chest eases at the sight. It looks like something out of a Hallmark movie—roof buried, steps half covered, and smoke trailing from the chimney.
The car stops, and I push the door open. Cold air rushes in, biting at my skin as my boots sink into the snow. Clay’s already at the back, slamming the trunk shut, both suitcases in hand like he can’t get this over with fast enough.
“I’ll go first,” he says, nodding toward the porch. “Follow in my steps so you’re less likely to slip.”
I bite back the retort that sits on my tongue and follow him. I want to point out that it would probably be better for me, considering I’m in boots and he’s still in his dress shoes, but I’m not about to argue with him either.
My fingers are stiff and clumsy as I fight with the lockbox, but the key finally slips free. The door groans open, and warmth rushes out, cedar and old wood chasing off the sting of cold. My shoulders sag before I can stop them.
Inside, the cabin is warm and dim, the kind of place that feels lived in even if it isn’t.
Two leather couches face a stone fireplace draped with garland, a white rug spread across the wood floor.
Stockings hang from the mantel, and a bowl of ornaments sits on the coffee table.
The Christmas touches are simple, but they make the place feel less like a rental and more like a home.
I pause just inside, thawing one breath at a time, until Clay comes in behind me. Cold still clings to him, snow melting into his hair and shoulders. He doesn’t stop to take in the place. He doesn't even say a word. He just pushes past me, a suitcase in each hand as he heads down the hall.
On the counter sits a folded note beside a loaf of bread that looks freshly baked.
Welcome! Please help yourself to anything in the fridge or cabinets.
Stay warm and enjoy your visit. Between that and the lights on the mailbox, something twists in my chest. They’re little things, but enough to make it feel like somebody cares.
I dig through my bag, clothes flying everywhere until I find an oversized T-shirt with Santa’s Naughty List cracked across the front in red glitter letters.
It’s not exactly what I planned on wearing around Clay.
I didn’t pack for this or for sleeping in a cabin with him.
At home, I sleep half covered and barely dressed because my room’s always too hot.
Now, the air bites, and everything I own feels wrong.
I scrub the makeup off my face and twist my hair into something that passes for a bun. When I pad back into the kitchen barefoot, the fire’s going strong. Of course Clay’s not anywhere near it.
He’s at the breakfast bar, casual as ever in black lounge pants and a plain white T-shirt.
Nothing special, but on him, it’s impossible not to look.
The shirt pulls across his shoulders, stretches over muscle, and the firelight casts shadows across his chest. His forearms rest on the counter, veins raised against his skin. My throat tightens.
He glances up, catches me staring, and doesn’t bother hiding the smirk that flickers across his mouth.
“You planning to stand there all night?” His voice cuts in. “Or you gonna eat before it gets cold?”
I jolt, heat rushing to my face. “You could try being nice for once. Might even help you shake that Scrooge nickname.”
He doesn’t bother looking up, just takes another bite of his sandwich. “I hauled your suitcase through a blizzard. That’s nice enough.”
I slide onto the stool across from him, dragging my sandwich closer like I need the space. “Maybe if you didn’t act like being in the same room with me was punishment, I’d believe it.”
That gets his attention. His eyes lift, the weight of them pinning me in place. “You think this is about you?” His low tone is clipped. “Not everything is about you, Tessa.”
The words slice through me, stinging more than I’ll ever let him see. I smother the ache with a forced smile. “Relax, Clay. You’re the last person I’d want attention from.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. Our eyes lock across the counter, the weight of it thick enough to make my pulse trip. Clay breaks first, dropping his gaze and taking another bite of his sandwich like he didn’t just cut me open and leave me burning.
I pick up my sandwich and take a bite, chewing just to have something to do. The crunch of chips fills the silence, louder than it should be. It digs under my skin until I can’t take it anymore. I shove my stool back. “I’m making cocoa.”
He exhales. “Cocoa?”
“Yes, cocoa.” I rattle a spoon against the counter louder than necessary. “Some of us like to enjoy the sweetness in life, Clay.”
His jaw tics, but he doesn’t fire back. I’ll take it as a small win.
I slide a steaming mug across the counter to him before fixing my own.
With a blanket around my shoulders, I carry mine along with the rest of my food to the couch and sink into the corner.
The fire fills the room with heat, and How the Grinch Stole Christmas plays—fitting, considering who I’m stuck with.
Clay doesn’t follow. He stays planted at the breakfast bar, shoulders stiff, eyes locked on the fire like staring hard enough might pull him out of here.
“You’re really gonna sit over there and sulk all night?” I ask, light on the surface with a hint of edge in my tone.
His head snaps up, glare sharp. “I’m not sulking.”
I take a slow sip. “Could’ve fooled me. Even the Grinch looks like he’s having more fun than you.”
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t answer.
“Scrooge,” I hum into my mug.
That glare of his could cut glass, but after a long beat, he pushes off the counter. Heavy steps carry him to the other couch. Not close, but enough that I can feel him nearby.
“See? That wasn’t so hard,” I mutter, taking another sip.
His jaw tics again, but he stays silent. The fire pops, the wind whips against the windows, and the movie keeps playing. For a few minutes, it almost feels normal. I let myself wonder what it would be like if Clay didn’t hold me at arm’s length all the time.
I sigh, shifting deeper under my blanket. “You know, if my professors weren’t such sadists and scheduled an 8 a.m. final right before Christmas break, we wouldn’t even be stuck here.”
This time, his voice comes from right across the room, low and rough. “If it weren’t for that, I’d probably be stuck somewhere alone, which doesn’t sound half bad.”
I blink at the screen, a smirk tugging at my mouth.
“Maybe. But you’re stuck with me now, so you might as well try to enjoy yourself.
” His brow arches, like he’s daring me to keep pushing.
I set my mug down with a grin. “Fine. Sulk all you want, Scrooge. I’ll carry the holiday spirit for both of us. ”
I toss the blanket aside and crouch by the fire, poking at the logs like I know what I’m doing.
“You’re gonna smother it if you keep stacking wood like that,” he says.
I glance over my shoulder. “You wanna do it?”
“No,” he mutters, slipping on his boots anyway. A blast of cold follows him out the door. When he comes back, there’s snow melting in his hair and an armful of firewood in his arms. He drops it beside the hearth. “Extra for later.”
“Thanks, Paul Bunyan.”
He ignores me, checks the door latch, and says, “I’ll make sure the generator’s good in case we need it.”
By the time he’s back, I’ve built a fortress of blankets and set out more cocoa. The sweet smell hangs heavy in the air.
He eyes the mugs like they’re poison. “You know sugar’s not gonna keep us warm if the power cuts out.”
“Neither will you being a grump.” I pull the blanket around me tighter. “Cocoa’s a must-have. I even added peppermint because, you know, Christmas, Clay. Try to keep up.”
He shoots me a look but doesn’t bite. Instead, he grabs a blanket and drops onto the opposite couch, moving like he’s trying not to admit he’s cold. The blanket falls over his lap, his mug balanced in his hand like it’s no big deal—but nothing about him is relaxed.
The space between us feels smaller than it is. His eyes meet mine for a beat too long before he looks away. I pretend to focus on the movie, sipping my cocoa, but the heat in my cheeks isn’t from the fire.
I can feel him. The quiet hum of him sitting there. Close enough to reach but far enough to remind me I shouldn’t want to.
Neither of us says it, but we’re both thinking the same thing. The last time we were alone. The night we never talk about. The memory of his hands still lingers, alive and dangerous under my skin.
Then his mug hits the table with a hard thud. “I’m turning in.”
The words drop cold. “Already? The movie isn’t even halfway over.”
“Long day. I need sleep.” He won’t even look at me.
I hug the blanket tighter, cocoa warming my hands even as the room cools around us. “Fine. Go hide in your room, Scrooge. If you need me, I’ll be out here soaking in the Christmas spirit without you.”
The second the words are out, heat rushes up my neck. Need me? God. What was that?
Clay’s laugh is low, vibrating through me. He scrubs a hand over his jaw, arm flexing, and of course my eyes follow.
“Good to know,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Good night, Tessa.”
The way he says my name ties my stomach in knots as I listen to his footsteps trail down the hallway.
His door clicks shut, and only then do I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I sag back against the cushions, blanket cocooning me but doing nothing for the ache in my chest.
Yeah. Good night.