Chapter Seven
Clay
By the time I push myself off the couch, my back is stiff and my head’s pounding.
Tessa’s passed out, curled on her side with her knees pulled up, the blanket slipping low around her hips.
She doesn’t even stir when I stand. Her hair has fallen over her face, soft strands catching the glow from the fireplace.
For a second, I let myself look—too long, probably—before I drag my eyes away and force my feet down the hall.
I should be relieved she’s asleep. One less fight to bite my tongue through, one less reminder of how damn small this cabin feels with her inside it. But relief’s not what I feel. It’s something heavier, something that coils low in my gut and makes every nerve hum like I’m wired too tight.
The bathroom’s cold when I step in, the kind of chill that seeps into your skin. My reflection looks the way I feel—jaw clenched, eyes hollow, shoulders strung with tension. I strip down and twist the shower knob, waiting until steam fogs the glass before stepping in.
The water scalds at first, but I don’t move. I let it beat into my shoulders and try to wash some of this shit off me. It doesn’t work.
I brace both palms against the tile, bow my head, and shut my eyes. All I can hear is the rush of water and my own breath, ragged and uneven. All I can feel is the ache I can’t shake—her.
The way she hummed while she cooked earlier, off-key and careless. How the faint vanilla scent of her lotion lingers when she walks by. The sight of her, curled on the couch in her oversized sweater, hair falling over her face.
I curse under my breath, but my body doesn’t give a damn about the lines I’ve been drawing in my head. My hand wraps around my cock before I even register the thought, and the hiss that rips out of me is a mix of pain and relief.
The first stroke nearly causes my knees to buckle. Heat spikes hard, every pull cranking the tension tighter, sharper. My grip adjusts, sliding slow, then harder, faster, chasing something I swore I wouldn’t let happen.
And still, it’s her. Always her.
Flashes hit me like blows—her mouth parting on a laugh, her lips pink from biting them, the way her blue eyes catch mine when she thinks I’m not looking. My fist works harder, my thumb dragging over the head, and the image shifts to her mouth wrapped around me instead, her voice moaning my name.
I drop my head to the tile, forehead pressed against it, water pounding my back. My hand moves harder, faster, and I let myself imagine her there—curled against me, pulled into my lap, whispering my name the way she did that night in the hallway. Like I belonged to her.
A groan tears low from my chest. I don’t want this. Don’t want it to be her. But there’s no fighting it. She’s all I can see, all I can taste, all I can remember. My whole body shudders as my release tears through me, leaving nothing left inside me but a deep ache.
I stay there too long after, braced against the wall, chest heaving, water pounding down until the sting in my skin matches the raw ache in my chest.
When I finally shut the water off, the bathroom feels colder than before, steam thinning into nothing. I towel off, drag on my sweats, and catch my reflection in the mirror again. Same clenched jaw. Same hollow eyes.
The only difference is that the weight in my chest feels worse now. Because no matter what I do to try to shake her, I know the truth—Tessa’s under my skin deeper than ever. And there’s no escaping her. Not while stuck snowed in this house.
Back in my room, I flip open the laptop, the glow stabbing at my eyes. I focus on the game tape—Kolmont’s lazy shifts, weak coverage, and sloppy defense. My pen digs into the page, each note rougher than the last.
But she’s still there. Her laughter. The mess she left in the kitchen.
Wrapping paper is scattered across the living room floor.
She’s curled up on the couch, comfortable in a way I can’t let myself be.
I press harder, letters grinding into the paper until the tip’s about to snap.
Doesn’t matter. I’m only pretending I’m in control.
I remind myself why I keep her at arm’s length.
She’s off-limits. Getting tangled up with her would be a distraction, and I have too much on the line already.
I tell myself I’m stronger than this, that distance is the only way.
But the truth sits heavy in my chest, the urge to cross that line pressing hard against it.
By the time I give up on studying tape, it’s late. The cabin’s quiet, lights dim, clock pushing past ten. I grab the shovel, step outside, and the motion sensor floods the porch and driveway with harsh white light.
My arms burn, shoulders screaming with every heave of snow. Boots skid on the ice, breath ripping out of me in sharp bursts. Each shovelful blows back toward me, like the universe is laughing at me for thinking I could dig my way out of this house.
Headlights cut across the yard. A pickup rolls in slow behind me, chains biting deep into the ice. It’s another reminder of how stuck I am. A man with a broad frame, under a flannel jacket and a red knit cap pulled low, climbs out.
“Evening,” he calls, voice rough against the wind. “Saw you out here working on the car. Figured you’ll be stuck a couple of days, so I thought I’d bring this by.”
He hefts a wooden box from the truck bed, steam curling into the cold. “Name’s Tom. My wife and I own the place. She baked a cinnamon streusel coffee cake yesterday and packed a thermos of mulled cider. Nothing fancy, but it’ll keep you warm.”
The heat sears through my gloves. Cinnamon and sugar hit hard, sweet in a way that doesn’t belong out here in the cold.
“Appreciate it,” I grunt, shifting the box under one arm.
He nods toward the driveway, where the car sits buried under a pile of snow. “That yours?”
“Yeah. Well, it’s a rental,” I mutter, jaw tight. “They didn’t have much left with flights being grounded.”
“Won’t get far in that,” he says simply. “County plows won’t make it out here until the main roads are cleared. Could be hours, could be a couple of days, depending how bad the drifts get. Best thing you can do is hunker down, stay warm, and enjoy the quiet while you’ve got it.”
His firm voice is matter-of-fact. Still, there’s a hint of warmth under it. He claps a gloved hand against the box like it seals the deal. “Don’t worry. You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need to.”
“Thanks,” I grunt, shifting the box under one arm. “Means a lot.”
“Don’t mention it.” He tips his cap before climbing back in the cab. “Stay safe, son.”
I stand there with the crate in my arms, watching his truck disappear down the driveway. The faint smell of cinnamon has my stomach growling, like I hadn’t eaten only a few hours ago.
When I trudge back inside, I figure Tessa’s still out cold on the couch. I tell myself I’ll drop the box on the counter and head straight down the hall, force myself to get some sleep.
And then I see her.
She’s at the counter, hair a mess, cheeks pink from sleep. That sweater’s slipped off her shoulder again, skin catching in the dim kitchen light. Barefoot, toes curled against the wood floor, mug cupped in both hands. Her eyes flick to the crate, and her face lights up.
“Oh my God, what is that? It smells amazing.”
Her voice is soft, but it cuts right through the cold stuck in my chest.
I set the box on the counter harder than I need to, snow dripping onto the floor. “Owner stopped by. His wife sent him by with cinnamon streusel cake and cider.” My voice comes out rough.
She steps closer, pulling the towel back. Sugar and spice roll up thick, sweet enough to taste. Her shoulder brushes mine, and I go rigid.
“Guess even Scrooge gets a Christmas miracle,” she murmurs, grinning up at me.
I grunt, yanking off my gloves. My fingers are stiff and numb. She gives me a once-over, eyes narrowing.
“You’re soaked,” she says, half a laugh under her breath. “Go change before you freeze or wind up sick.”
I don’t argue.
When I come back, warmth still clings to my clean clothes, and the smell of cinnamon fills the air. The kitchen’s a mess with ingredients everywhere, flour dusting Tessa’s cheek. She’s barefoot, apron crooked, stirring a bowl like she’s been at it for hours.
“You’re just in time,” she says brightly, sliding a plate of coffee cake toward me. “They gave us ingredients too, so we’re making gingerbread man cookies.”
Her excitement’s ridiculous. And infectious. I sit, fork in hand, eyes on her while she digs through cupboards, pulling out bowls with way too much energy for this late.
“I’ve missed baking every Christmas,” she chatters, dumping sugar into a bowl with more enthusiasm than precision. “The twins would eat all the frosting before I even finished decorating…”
Steven’s kids. I know exactly who she means, even without her saying their names. I can see them now—green frosting on their cheeks and sprinkles spilled all over the place, tearing through the kitchen while she tries to keep up.
Her laugh bursts out, loud and unfiltered, catching me off guard. It lands harder than it should, tugging at that part of my chest I keep trying to ignore.
Then the smell of something sharp and burnt.
“Shit!” She grabs the oven mitt and yanks the tray out in a cloud of smoke. Half the cookies cave in the middle, and the rest are blackened around the edges. She groans and swipes her hair out of her face, leaving a streak of flour across her cheek.
I try to hold it in, but my mouth betrays me. “You’re a disaster, Sugar.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes sparking. “Really, Scrooge? Sorry for trying to make a bad situation a little better. At least one of us is trying to make this place feel more like Christmas.”
The words sting, but the curve of her mouth softens the blow. She’s a wreck, apron crooked and smoke curling off the tray, flour scattered everywhere like snow—and I can’t look anywhere else.
I stab into my cake and chew slow, pretending she doesn’t get to me. But she does. Every look gives me away. She’s sunshine mixed with trouble, and I’m one wrong move from burning right alongside her.