Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Holly
"Last chance to change your mind, soldier boy."
The words come out steadier than they have any right to, considering getting here took exactly three pep talks, two shots of liquid courage, and a stern reminder that I am a grown-ass woman who does not run from her problems.
A six-foot-something problem of pure temptation wielding a key like he's about to unlock more than just the door.
He works the lock with practiced ease. "No more 'no girls allowed.'"
"Not that it was strictly enforced." The words slip out before my brain can pull the emergency brake.
“That’s just Sierra. She’s different.”
“Chance?”
“Yeah.”
“Make that the last time you say that.”
His swift grin tells me he sees right through me. “Jealous?”
“Bite me.”
His gaze slides down to my thighs. “Eventually.”
The inside is surprisingly warm, all weathered wood and bare, but strong bones. Along the wall, a twin bed on a metal bed frame dotted with rust, and one the other side, an ancient wood stove in the corner.
A tall window overlooks the valley. "Wow, so you guys really do still come here then, even now."
"Everett keeps it up." Chance moves to the kitchen area. "Sometimes the weather turns and they crash here overnight instead of pushing it."
He drags a thermos from inside his jacket. Followed by a bottle of liquor.
"Is that schnapps?"
His grin is pure mischief. "Can't have a proper Shred Shack experience without it."
Great. Because what this situation needs is alcohol. You know what they say, nothing helps clear up romantic confusion like peppermint-flavored terrible decisions.
And like I said, I’ve had two shots of liquid courage already.
While he works his magic, I wander the space, perusing the photos lining the wall—the lodge in all of its iterations through the decades. There's something weirdly intimate about seeing the place's history, knowing we grew up in these snapshots.
He holds out the thermos lid, filled to the brim with spiked, rich hot chocolate. Definitely not from a packet.
I snatch it free and take an immediate gulp. Anything to hide the tremor in my hands.
Because we're actually here.
Alone.
With his promise to bite me eventually hanging between us. And I don't do good with vague.
Give me a timeline, my man. I’ll even take it in military time, with coordinates and a detailed action plan. Maybe some of those tactical maps with the little arrows showing troop movements.
"Go slow, Squirt. No more pimping out my junk to—what was it you said? 'Tweak your Twas the Night Before Christmas.'"
The cocoa slides down my airway with a sharp intake of breath.
I pound a fist to my sternum, you know, trying not to die.
Of all the moments for him to bring that up while I'm drinking his horny I-wanna-sex-you-up-in-the-‘ole-shack brew.
This is how I go out.
Not in some epic skiing accident, but choking on spiked hot chocolate because the guy I've been crushing on decided to quote my horny Christmas poetry back to me.
"I—God, I did say it out loud, didn't I?" I croak out the question, gripping the metal bed frame for support and trying not to drown in my own stupidity."
Eyes crinkling at the corners, he grins and lifts my cup for a sip, turning it so his mouth settles over the lip balm print I left behind. "Oh yeah, you said it." He tilts his head slightly, a wink slipping out like it’s second nature. "And then some."
Don't clench your thighs, don't clench your thighs... his gaze drops to my legs where I'm, indeed, clenching my thighs.
Because apparently my body has zero chill and all the subtlety of a neon sign flashing "AVAILABLE FOR CLIMBING LIKE A TREE."
“Problem, Squirt.”
“You have to stop calling me that.”
“Or, and I’m leaning this way, we could just change the reason why I call you that.”
“If you think I’m taking a ride on your peppermint log here where you diddled Sierra, you are out of your damn mind.”
It’s his turn to choke now, while I take a seat on the ancient bed, the springs protesting my weight.
He swipes at the chocolate rolling down his chin. “What the hell—I wasn’t the one who diddled Sierra here. Might have been a handjob?—”
“Oh. My. God. Don’t tell me that.” Gripping the mattress tighter, I squeeze my eyes shut, doing anything I can to block out the visual.
Come on, come on, give me a retired, social-security-collecting stripper, faded cupid tattoo on her ass, grinding a dildo, mounted on the back of a carousel horse… and go!
“You’re the one who brought it up. Just clarifying.”
I crack open an eye, “So Nick…”
“Nope. Nick was the first kiss. Everett, on the other hand.”
“No way!”
I am going to have to overwrite that handjob though—squeeze that tone he uses to say “she’s different” clean out of him, right through his jingle berries.
“Yup. And I’ve never seen too people fuck as much as they do to this day, without actually fucking.”
"I hope they changed the sheets since then." Actually, I hope they burned them. And the mattress. Maybe we should be wearing hazmat suits right now.
Running my palms over the mattress, my fingers catch on something tucked underneath. "What's th?—"
Chance's eyes go wide. "Don't?—"
Too late.
I hold up the vintage Playboy like a trophy. "The sacred texts!"
"Those aren't—" He lunges for the magazine but I dance away.
"What's wrong, soldier? Afraid I'll find your teenage spank bank?" Scooching back, I lean against the wall and flip through pages. "Wow, the 90s were not kind to—holy shit."
"What?" He freezes.
Peeking over the top of the magazine, I raise an eyebrow. "Notes in the margins?" I squint at the familiar cramped handwriting pretending I can make out the faded letters in the dim light. "Dear Diary, today I learned about the quality of Sierra’s hand lo?—"
"That's enough of that."
"Oh my God, wait—there's a color-coding system? Did you actually highlight the important parts?" I flip another page, cackling. "Please tell me you made a study guide. 'Chapter One: The Female Anatomy—A Comprehensive Review.'"
He lunges for the magazine, but I'm faster, rolling away, shielding the evidence of his wayward youth under me.
"Was this prep for your oral exam?" I wheeze out between laughs. "Did you get extra credit?"
His face flames. "I was thorough."
"Clearly." I can't stop grinning. "Did you make flashcards too? Pop quizzes? Weekly progress reports?"
He lunges again, but I manage to block him for a second time. My victory lasts approximately two seconds before his weight settles over me, one hand braced beside my head while the other snakes under me for the magazine.
"Getting handsy there, soldier." My breath hitches as his chest presses against my back. "What happened to consent?"
"That was before you found my thesis on advanced female anatomy." His voice rumbles against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "Now it's a matter of national security."
"What, afraid I'll discover your original hypothesis on the—" The magazine disappears from my grip as he uses his superior reach to snatch it away, but I'm already rolling beneath him, ready with my next quip.
Only he doesn't move back. He stays there, hovering over me, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. The laughter dies in my throat.
"Hi." His voice dips low—intimate.
"Hi yourself." Mine comes out embarrassingly breathy.
His free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face, and the tenderness in the gesture makes my chest ache. "You know, back to the consent thing,” he says softly, "I was awake."
My breath stutters. “What?"
"Both nights." His thumb traces my cheekbone, his eyes never leaving mine. "Every time you touched me. When your fingers traced my arms, played with my hair." His voice drops even lower. "Every time you whispered my name in the dark, thinking I couldn't hear you."
Heat floods my face as the implications sink in. All those moments I thought were private—my quiet exploration of him, the confessions I breathed into the night... okay, I might actually die on the spot.
"Why did you let me keep talking?" The words barely make it past my lips.
"Because I wanted to hear everything. Every confession. Every fear." His eyes search mine, stealing my breath. "Every hope."
My heart pounds against my ribs, a desperate rhythm. "And now?"
"Now I want you to say it all again." His thumb traces my bottom lip, igniting every nerve ending. "But this time, looking at me."