Chapter Six
Tessa
I should’ve known better than to think Clay was letting his walls down last night.
For a second, just a brief second, I swore I saw him.
Not the guarded, closed-off man he is now, but the Clay I kissed in the hallway that Christmas three years ago.
The one who pulled me close like he couldn’t stand another moment without me.
His eyes caught mine in the dark, and for a heartbeat, I let myself believe he remembered it too.
But then it was gone. His face hardened, his walls slammed back into place, and he brushed past me like I was nothing more than a defender in his way.
I steeled my spine and pretended I didn’t care, but the ache has been sitting heavy in my chest ever since. So this morning, I kept myself busy. That’s what I do when I don’t want to feel something.
I made coffee, poured one mug for myself and left the rest for him, then stepped out onto the porch. The storm left snow piled to my knees, and the driveway was now buried. Clay’s already outside, bent over the car, shoveling like he can dig us all the way back to Briar Creek by himself.
I lingered longer than I should have, clutching the mug in both hands, hoping he’d glance up. Just once, but he never did. Eventually, the coffee went lukewarm, and I slipped back inside with that same hollow ache he has a way of leaving behind.
From there, I threw myself into breakfast—bacon, eggs, and the cinnamon rolls the neighbor left for us to bake.
Soon, the cabin smelled like something sweet enough to make me forget.
I scrubbed the skillet, plated the leftovers for him, and wiped down the counters twice.
It still wasn’t enough to quiet my head.
Now I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the chaos I created. Wrapping paper torn in jagged strips, ribbons coiled across the rug, crushed bows under my knee. Tape clings to my fingers, my sweatshirt, and even a loose strand of hair I can’t shake free.
“Perfect, Tessa,” I mutter as the paper refuses to fold neatly. “Martha Stewart would be so proud.”
The floor shifts behind me, and I freeze. Clay’s boots drag across the wood before he comes into view. He fills the doorway, hair damp, shoulders caught in the firelight. His gaze moves over the chaos, settling on me with that same unimpressed look.
“Hate to break it to you, but you struggling to wrap those presents is a waste of time. We’re not going anywhere anytime soon.” His voice is gruff, but amusement flickers in his eyes.
I pluck the sad little bow between my fingers like I’ve won a prize. “If I don’t keep busy, I'm going to lose my mind being stuck here with you. Be careful, or you might wind up strangled by a string of Christmas lights.”
He presses his lips together like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, but the spark in his eyes gives him away. Still, he doesn’t give me the satisfaction. Instead, he steps into the room and crouches by the mess of paper and ribbon.
The old floorboards groan under his weight, and the sound seems to pull the space tighter around us. All at once, I’m aware of the heat radiating off him and the faint mix of snow and cedar clinging to his coat.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches while I wrestle the paper into something that barely looks like a gift. The silence hangs heavy between us. I reach for the scissors, and his hand lands there too. They’re cold and rough, both in a way that makes my breath hitch.
My gaze snaps up, meeting his. The light from the fire flickers across his face, catching the sharp lines of his jaw and the green in his eyes. For a beat too long, neither of us moves.
Then he jerks his hand back like my touch burned him, his knuckles grazing mine. He clears his throat, then mutters something about checking the firewood and leaves.
The moment’s gone, but my body hasn’t caught up. I force my eyes back to the mess in my lap.
I yank off another strip of tape harder than I need to and mutter, “If we’re stuck here together, the least you could do is pretend to like Christmas.”
I don’t have to look to know he’s still watching. I can feel it—the weight of his gaze, like he’s daring me to call him on it. And the worst part? I know I’m not the only one faking it.
I’m shoving leftover scraps of wrapping paper into a lopsided pile when my phone buzzes. The screen lights up with a FaceTime call from my mom, and I don’t have the heart to ignore it.
A lump rises in my throat. I can already picture it—our moms side by side, wineglasses in hand, my niece and nephews sprawled across the rug, stockings hung on the stone fireplace.
The house filled with the smell of roast ham and sugar cookies.
That’s where I’m supposed to be. Not snowed in here. Not stuck with him.
I glance toward the kitchen. Clay leans against the counter, arms crossed, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. His hair’s still damp from being outside, curling at the ends. He looks untouched by all of it. Meanwhile, my pulse hammers like I’ve just been caught sneaking out after curfew.
“You gonna answer that?”
“They’ll expect to see you, too,” I shoot back, sharper than I mean to.
He raises a brow but lets it go. Then he pushes off the counter and drops onto the couch beside me. The cushion dips under his weight, nudging me close enough that our shoulders brush. My breath catches, heart stuttering at the contact, and then I swipe to accept the call.
The cabin fills with noise in an instant.
“There they are!” Mom’s voice carries over everyone else, followed by a mess of cheers and hellos.
The screen crowds fast—Clay’s mom, Sandra, in her bright red sweater, my nephews piled on the sofa behind her, Dad waving from his chair.
The tree glows in the background, gold lights blinking against ornaments that catch the camera’s glare.
For a second, it hits me square in the chest. I should be there.
“Snowed in, huh?” Mom’s smile stretches wide, relief written all over her face. “Oh, honey, I wish you two were here. It’s not the same without you.”
I force a smile. “We’re making do. The cabin’s… cozy.”
“Cozy?” Evan’s voice cuts in from somewhere off-screen before he leans into the frame, grinning like he’s been waiting for this. “Bet Clay’s loving that.”
My stomach tightens. I brace for Clay to laugh it off, to make sure everyone knows that whatever we’d hidden before is long gone. He has every reason to. But instead—
“Trying,” he mutters, gruff but even. “She’s turned the place into Santa’s workshop. I’ll be lucky if I make it out alive.”
The room bursts into laughter. Clay’s sister snorts, Evan shakes his head like he’s seen it all before, and Mom smiles, too amused to argue. Dad laughs, saying I’ve always been impossible at Christmas. It’s teasing, but it still hits somewhere deep.
I glance at Clay, but his face gives nothing away. Pretending comes easy to him.
The call carries on in its usual chaos—Sandra waving people closer, his dad trying to quiet the room, my brother talking over everyone like always. Mom tilts the phone to show the table piled high with food, the house glowing warm and alive. Everything Christmas is supposed to be.
And me? I sit shoulder to shoulder with Clay, pretending we belong there too.
By the time the goodbyes come, my cheeks ache from holding the smile.
“We miss you both,” Mom says, her voice soft and lingering. “Be safe in the storm. We’ll see you soon.”
When the call ends, the quiet settles in. The fire pops, and the wind presses against the windows. I set the phone on the cushion, my throat dry, my chest tight.
For a beat, neither of us moves.
Clay breaks the silence first. “Hey,” he mutters, still rough around the edges but softer than before. “Could be worse.”
I turn, searching his face in the dim firelight. “How?”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. God, he’s not wrong. I love my brother, but a weekend trapped with him? I’d never hear the end of his old football stories or how he almost went pro.
“Please.” I shake my head. “I’d be stuck listening to him rehash his glory days while yelling at the TV every time someone fumbles.”
Clay grins, eyes glinting in the firelight. “He still talk about that championship game?”
“Every Thanksgiving.” I laugh. “Pretty sure Mom can recite the entire story play-by-play.”
“Exactly,” Clay says, smug. “You should be thanking me.”
I shake my head, fighting another laugh. “Still not sure this is better.”
I roll my eyes, but the heaviness in my chest eases just enough that I can breathe again.
I push off the couch and head for the kitchen. The small stash of groceries the owner left isn’t much, but it’s something—pasta, canned tomatoes, a few vegetables. I set them on the counter and reach for a knife, determined to make myself useful.
Behind me, there’s a scrape of a chair. Boots scuff across the floor. I turn just as Clay comes up beside me. Before I can argue, he plucks the knife right out of my hand.
“Careful,” he mutters, sliding the cutting board closer. “Last thing we need is you bleeding all over the place.”
I stare at him, thrown off. “Since when do you help in the kitchen?”
“Don’t get used to it,” he says, already chopping like he knows what he’s doing. His expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does—lighter.
We work side by side, the silence shifting into something easier. The smell of garlic hits the pan, mixing with the smoke from the fire and the faint sweetness of the apple-pie candle I lit earlier. For the first time all day, the cabin feels less like a cage.
When the pasta’s ready, I grab two plates and slide one across the table to him.
Our fingers brush in the handoff—rough skin against mine, a jolt that shoots straight through me.
He pulls back too quick, fork clattering against the plate he hasn’t even touched yet, muttering something about the storm. My hand keeps tingling long after.
We eat in silence at first, the scrape of silverware loud in the quiet cabin. It’s stiff, both of us circling for safe ground. I ask what he’s been doing lately. He keeps it short—working out, getting used to post-NHL life, nothing more.
“So what are you even doing in Kolmont?” I ask finally, twirling pasta around my fork like I don’t care much about the answer.
His fork pauses for a beat. “Business.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s specific.”
He doesn’t look up. “Good thing I’m not taking questions.”
A laugh slips out of me. “You really are a pain in the ass, you know that?”
This time, his mouth twitches like he’s fighting it. “And you’re nosy.”
The words don’t bite the way they could. They sit lighter, almost warm. Against my better judgment, I smile. For once, the edge between us dulls.
When the plates are cleared, Clay leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. He studies me for a long moment before saying, “So… you gonna make me sit here in silence all night, or are we putting on one of those cheesy Christmas movies you love?”
My head snaps toward him, caught off guard. “What?”
He shrugs, casual, like it’s no big deal. “Storm’s not going anywhere. Might as well kill time.”
I study him, still trying to figure out the sudden shift. He won’t meet my eyes, keeping his expression unreadable.
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “Fine. But only if there’s cocoa.”
One brow lifts. “You drive a hard bargain, St. James.”
I busy myself at the counter, mixing cocoa into steaming mugs while he pokes at the fire, stoking it higher. The room glows, shadows stretching long across the log walls. When I hand him his mug, his fingers brush mine again. It’s brief but enough to spark that restless hum under my skin.
We end up on opposite ends of the couch.
I tuck myself into one corner with a blanket and my cocoa, the mug warm between my hands.
Clay leans back on the other end, stiff, arms crossed like he’s daring anyone to call it cozy.
The movie’s too bright and cheerful, but it doesn’t matter.
The storm outside—and the one in me—both ease under the glow of the fire.
I sip my cocoa, let the sweetness spread through me, and sink deeper into the cushions. The fire crackles, the movie plays, and his steady breathing fills the quiet until my eyes grow heavy.
The last thing I remember is the mug slipping from my hands.
Then it’s gone. A rough hand brushes mine, steadying it before it spills. My lashes flutter, just enough to catch him leaning close. His jaw’s tight, eyes locked on me with a look that steals my breath. He doesn’t say a word. Just lingers there, like he’s fighting himself.
I stay still, pretending to sleep, my chest thudding too loud in the quiet.
He hesitates, the silence stretching so thin I swear it might snap.
The mug clinks softly against the table, but his hand doesn’t leave mine right away.
His fingers hover, brushing my skin like he can’t decide whether to let go.
His breath comes rough, uneven, and every second he doesn’t move makes my pulse hammer harder.
For one dizzy beat, I think he might give in. That he’d lean down, close the space, and confirm everything simmering between us. My skin burns with the weight of it—of him—hovering so close.
Then the couch shifts, his warmth pulling away. His footsteps move down the hall, slow and heavy, until a door clicks shut, swallowed by the storm.
Me? I lie curled in the blanket, his touch still on my skin, his breath still in my ear.
The spot beside me feels empty and cold.
The ache in my chest only gets worse. I hate myself for it—for wanting more, for wishing he hadn’t stopped, for knowing better and still not caring.
Sleep isn’t coming. Not with how close he’d been and how much I already miss it.