Chapter 2
Ryder
The door shuts behind her with a thud that settles in my bones. Snow howls against the windows, the fire pops, and for a long moment I just stand there, staring at the tiny blonde disaster dripping on my floor.
This is not how my night was supposed to go.
I was supposed to finish splitting the last stack of wood.
Eat something simple.
Ignore my brother’s call.
Turn down his latest attempt to drag me to Frankie’s Grill and Grits so I can sit with his firefighter crew while they drink cocoa and pretend Christmas is pure magic.
He knows damn well I can’t stand this holiday. He keeps asking anyway.
Pretend Christmas Eve is nothing but another night I need to get through.
Instead, I’ve got a soaked little stranger in my cabin, clutching a dented cookie tin like it’s a life preserver.
Her damp hair curls around her face. Her coat is too big. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. She looks like trouble disguised as a snow fairy.
And I hate that my body reacts before my brain catches up.
I turn away from her, mostly so I do not stare like a damn fool. I grab the axe from where I set it by the door and put it against the wall near the firewood basket. Not that I think she will attack me with it. She just looked at it like it might come alive and lunge.
When I turn back, she is standing in the middle of the room, holding the cookie tin against her stomach, lips parted like she forgot how to speak.
She looks small.
Young. Twenty-two, maybe twenty-three.
Lost.
Heartbroken.
And trying her best to pretend she is not.
Something twists low in my chest.
I ignore it.
“Take off your coat. You are soaking the floor,” I say.
She jumps a little, then fumbles with the zipper and shoves the coat off her shoulders. It lands in a puddle of melted snow. She makes a face and bends to grab it.
“Just leave it,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
She freezes, half crouched.
I step in, scooping the coat off the floor before she can touch it again. Snow drips off the edges, so I shake it once and toss it over the back of the recliner closest to the fire.
“There,” I mutter. “It will dry.”
She straightens slowly, watching me like she cannot tell if I just helped or corrected her.
Then she shifts a little, and I finally get a proper look at her. That white sweater is soft and fitted, clinging in ways I have no business noticing. Curves that hit me low and hard.
I tear my eyes away, jaw tight, trying to pretend I am not cataloging every line of her body like a damn fool.
I focus on the fire instead. Not on the way her breath lifts her chest. Not on the curl she tucks behind her ear like she has no idea what that small move does to a man.
I pretend so hard it hurts.
She is staring at my torso. Trying not to, but she is. Her gaze skims over my chest, my abdomen, the trail of hair that disappears into the waistband of my jeans. She looks away fast, cheeks going bright red.
Good. Maybe she is embarrassed enough to look literally anywhere else. Maybe she will stop noticing everything I am trying not to feel.
I toss a couple more logs into the stove. The flames flare higher and heat spills across the cabin. I stand there for a moment, letting the warmth lick my skin.
I know storms.
I know when the air shifts and the wind tastes like ice.
I knew this one was coming hours before the first flake.
So I did what I always do.
Took the axe outside.
Split enough wood to last through the worst of it.
Worked until sweat rolled down my spine even in the cold.
I came inside without bothering with a shirt because the fire had the place hot enough to roast me. I grabbed the axe again and headed for the door, planning to split one more round before the storm buried everything.
The moment I pulled the door open, she was right there on the porch, hand raised like she was about to knock.
And just like that, everything changed.
She rubs her arms, trying to chase the cold from her bones.
She looks around the cabin in small, curious glances.
The recliners by the fire. The small kitchen to the right.
The single bed through the open doorway.
The rug in front of the stove. A narrow hallway beside the bedroom that leads to the bathroom. The storage room near the back wall.
This place is not big. Not cozy. Not even really meant for company.
Yet she stands there like she is trying to figure out where she fits.
“What were you doing with an axe?” she asks suddenly. Her voice is soft, unsure.
“Cutting wood.”
“Um. Shirtless?”
I shrug. “Work heats you up.”
Her eyes flick to my chest again. She swallows. I feel that swallow like a damn blow.
“Right. Of course,” she says. “Makes perfect sense.”
She tries to sound casual but her voice wobbles. She is nervous. Cold. And trying like hell not to let me see it.
“Sit if you want,” I say. “You look like you are going to fall over.”
She hesitates, then sits on the edge of the recliner closest to the fire. She sets her cookie tin on her lap and slowly opens it. The smell of gingerbread and vanilla hits the air.
It guts me instantly.
That smell.
That warmth.
That memory.
For a second, I see it all.
A lit tree.
Red and gold ornaments.
Stockings.
My ex laughing while we hung lights.
Days before she walked out.
Right before I found out she had someone else.
Bigger house. More money. More something.
I shove the memory down. It was years ago.
She glances up at me with a hopeful little smile. “They survived. Mostly.”
“Good,” I say. Too rough.
“You want one?”
I stare at the tin. Then at her.
I want to say no.
I want to stay far away from anything resembling holiday cheer.
But she is looking at me like she genuinely wants to share something she made with her own hands.
“Maybe later,” I say. My voice softens against my will.
She nods and closes the tin carefully.
She stares into the fire for a moment and I read her easily. Sad. Lonely. Trying to pretend she is fine.
I should keep my mouth shut.
“What are you doing up here alone?” I ask instead.
She looks down. “I rented a cabin.”
“You did not,” I say.
“I know that now.” She laughs a little. It cracks. “I guess I got scammed.”
Her shoulders sag. Her chin wobbles. She tries to hide it, but I see everything.
Someone hurt her.
Yeah. I feel that before I think it.
A sharp, unwelcome punch under the ribs.
Someone walked away and didn’t look back.
Some man, probably. Left her with that cracked voice and trembling mouth.
My jaw grinds before I can stop it.
I do not get jealous. I do not get protective. Not over strangers.
But the thought of anyone making her look this small and lost puts a burn in my chest I haven’t felt in years. It crawls up my spine, hot and stupid and territorial.
She stares at the fire like she’s trying to make sense of the world again.
“I do not understand why someone would do that,” she murmurs. “Pretend to rent a cabin.”
I breathe once. Slow. Controlled. Because if I don’t, something dangerous might slip out.
“People do all kinds of crap for money.”
She nods, but she is somewhere else. Somewhere sad.
“My parents left for a vacation,” she says suddenly. “And did not tell me. I found out through social media.”
For a second I just stare at her.
Then something in my chest loosens in a way it shouldn’t.
Not a man.
Not some bastard who broke her heart.
Parents.
Thoughtless. Selfish. Careless.
At least not a man.
Relief hits me fast and hard, sharp as cold air in my lungs.
This is stupid. Wrong.
I have no business feeling anything about who hurt her and why.
But I do.
I swallow it down, that ugly little flicker of relief, and the guilt that comes right after.
My chest still goes tight.
Because whatever the reason, she was left alone on Christmas Eve.
“Idiots,” I say.
Rough. Honest.
Because they damn well are.
She laughs. Surprised. Real. It softens her entire face.
“You do not even know them,” she says.
“Do not need to.”
She looks down at the cookie tin. “I just wanted… I do not know. A normal holiday. I made cookies. I wrapped their gifts. It feels stupid now.”
“It is not stupid,” I say quietly.
Her eyes lift. I look away before she can read too much in my face.
“Storm will last all night,” I say. “Maybe longer.”
“So I am stuck here?”
“For now.”
She nods. “I do not want to be a bother.”
“You are not.”
Her eyes widen a little, surprised.
I clear my throat. “Just… stay out of trouble.”
She smiles again. Small. Sweet. Dangerous.
I hate how my chest reacts.
“You can take the bed,” I say. "I will sleep on the floor."
Her mouth falls open. “I cannot do that. I barely know you.”
“Exactly. You barely know me, and you think I am letting you sleep on the floor.”
“I can take one of the recliners,” she offers.
I shake my head. “No.”
“But it is your cabin.”
“I will sleep on the rug,” I say. “Or the chair. You take the bed.”
“This is ridiculous,” she mutters.
“You are stubborn.”
“You are bossy.”
I stare at her until she breaks first.
“Fine,” she says. “But only because it is freezing. And I will wash the sheets before I go.”
I grunt. Not an agreement but not a refusal.
She looks stupidly pleased with herself.
I grab a blanket from the storage room and drop it near the rug by the fire. The floor is warm there. I have slept on worse.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
I do not answer. If I open my mouth right now I might say something I will not be able to take back.
She shifts on her feet, looking down at her damp sweater and jeans. “Um… would it be alright if I used your bathroom? Just to change? I have dry clothes in my suitcase.”
“Yeah,” I say. “End of the hallway. Door on the left.”
She nods, quick and relieved. She crouches by her suitcase, unzips it, and pulls out something soft and folded. I look away, giving her space.
She stands with the clothes in her arms and heads for the hallway. She pauses once, glancing back like she is making sure I am not about to bark at her to stop.
Then she slips into the bathroom and closes the door.
I stare at that door longer than I should.
Should look at the fire.
Or the window.
Anywhere else.
I hear the quiet rustle of fabric as she changes. The soft scrape of a zipper. Nothing more. Still, something warm curls low in my gut before I force it back down.
A minute later the bathroom door opens and she steps out in something warm and fuzzy and painfully sweet.
An oversized red sweater with a white snowflake pattern, the kind that screams Christmas from across a damn mountain.
Soft fabric, sleeves a little too long, paired with simple black leggings that hug her legs just enough to make my jaw clench. Fuzzy socks.
It is the sort of outfit I should hate.
Cute. Festive. Cheerful.
Exactly the kind of thing I have had no use for in years.
But I do not hate it.
Not even close.
And that irritates the hell out of me.
Her cheeks are pink from the cold and the heat of the cabin, and for a stupid second I forget how to breathe.
She stands there for a moment, fingers hooked together nervously. “By the way… I never told you my name. It is Nikki. Nikki Hope.”
The sound of it hits somewhere deep and unwelcome.
Nikki Hope.
It suits her.
Too soft.
Too sweet.
Too damn easy to say.
I clear my throat. “Ryder Pierce.”
Her eyes lift, bright and curious. “Ryder,” she repeats, saying it like she is testing the shape of it in her mouth.
Something tightens in my gut.
Sharp. Hot. Immediate.
I look away before she sees too much. “Bed is yours,” I say. “Get some rest.”
She smiles, small and grateful and dangerous as sin.
And I know, right then, that hearing my name in her voice is going to ruin whatever peace I thought I had left.