Chapter 3
Nikki
Ryder told me to sleep.
He meant it too, in that quiet commanding way of his that makes everything sound non-negotiable.
But the moment I sit on his bed, I know I am doomed.
The sheets smell like him.
Not cologne. Not soap.
Something natural and warm. Pine. Cedar. Woodsmoke. Like he spends half his life wrestling the forest into submission.
It gets under my skin too fast.
I tell myself not to notice.
I tell myself to calm down.
I tell myself a man like him would never think twice about a girl like me.
Curvy. Soft.
A round little marshmallow in a cabin built for a bear.
Excellent motivational speech, brain.
I lie down for exactly four seconds before my pulse does a weird dizzy flip and I sit up again, heart pounding.
The bed feels wrong.
Too intimate.
Too much like I am pretending I belong in a life that is not mine.
Too much like he might walk back in and see me wrapped in his scent and…
Nope.
Right on cue, the shower turns on down the narrow hallway.
Fantastic. Now my imagination gets to join the meltdown.
I stare at the ceiling. The firelight flickers across the wall. My suitcase sits open like it knows I am helpless.
I am not sleeping.
Not like this.
Not while Ryder Pierce personally rewires my heartbeat by existing.
I slip out of the bed quietly, padding across the room in my fuzzy socks. The storm rattles the windows. The fire pops. The whole cabin feels smaller with him showering in the next room.
I kneel beside my suitcase, fingers digging for the little tin of cocoa mix I packed.
My hand closes around it, then something shifts.
My twinkle lights spill out across the floor.
Of course my emotional support fairy lights would expose me at the worst possible moment.
I scoop them up fast, cheeks heating.
I should put them back.
I should hide every trace of Christmas cheer.
This man seems to hate Christmas.
He’s the type who probably snarls at candy canes.
A full-time rival to the Grinch.
But the room feels dim.
Hollow.
Too much like every lonely holiday I have ever had.
And it is Christmas Eve.
I pick the smallest strand.
Tiny golden bulbs.
Battery powered.
Just a soft little glow.
Not enough to invade his space… hopefully.
I hold them gently and drape them across the shelf above the recliners.
Then I switch off the overhead light.
The cabin falls into hush and shadow.
Only the fire flickers in the stove and the twinkle lights warm to life in a slow golden bloom.
Something in me loosens.
The room looks a little less empty.
A little less cold.
A little more like a place where a heart could rest without falling apart.
I swallow and walk to the tiny kitchen.
I fill a pot. Heat water. Stir in my cocoa mix. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Nutmeg. The scent blooms slowly, filling the cabin with a sweetness that aches somewhere deep inside.
I make enough for two mugs.
One for me.
One for him.
I hesitate.
Maybe this is too much.
Too forward.
Too hopeful.
I almost pour his out.
But the storm slams the windows. The fire crackles behind me. And something stubborn inside me says: don’t.
The bathroom door opens.
Heavy footsteps move down the hallway.
My pulse jumps.
I lift my head.
And he walks into the room.
Still damp from the shower.
Hair pushed back.
T-shirt stretched across those unfair shoulders.
Heat trailing off his skin.
He stops.
Absolutely still.
His eyes lock onto the twinkle lights first.
His chest lifts.
Falls.
Tight.
Then he sees the cocoa mugs.
The glow.
Me in my oversized red snowflake sweater, cheeks warm from the stove and firelight.
His expression doesn’t change at first.
But something shifts behind his eyes.
Shock.
Confusion.
A strange vulnerability he crushes almost instantly.
Then irritation.
Then nothing at all. A shuttered blankness that feels like armor.
He definitely hates Christmas. I can feel it in the way his jaw tightens.
I panic.
"I can take them down."
The words tumble out in a messy rush.
"I know you probably don't want decorations and the lights fell out and I just wanted it to feel less sad in here and I promise I was not trying to invade your space, I can turn them off or hide them or throw them outside in the snow if you want."
"Leave them."
The voice is rough.
Unfiltered.
A little too sincere.
I blink.
He swallows and says it again, quieter.
"They are fine."
He looks away fast, like the admission cost him something he cannot ever get back.
But his eyes drift toward the lights again.
Once.
Twice.
Like he does not want to like them but cannot stop himself.
He steps closer.
Slow.
Grounded.
Dangerous enough to steal my breath.
"What are you making?" he asks, voice low.
"Cocoa. My own mix."
He inhales.
Slow.
Deep.
The scent hits him and something in his shoulders tenses, like it reaches a place he does not let many things reach.
I lift his mug with both hands.
Offering more than cocoa.
Offering a moment.
A little warmth.
A little hope.
"You do not have to drink it," I whisper. "I just did not want to drink alone."
Something flickers across his face.
Soft.
Sharp.
Complicated.
He reaches out and takes the mug from my hands.
His fingers brush mine.
My knees almost fold.
He clears his throat like he felt the jolt too.
We move to the fire together.
He lowers himself onto the rug, legs stretched out, one knee bent. The firelight glows over the hard lines of his shoulders and jaw.
I sit beside him, not touching, but close enough that our shared heat fills the space between us.
He takes a sip.
He freezes.
Then takes another.
Slower.
He stares at the mug like it unlocked a memory he does not want to admit he missed.
His shoulders drop a fraction.
Barely noticeable.
But I see it.
I open the cookie tin.
"Want one now?"
He hesitates long enough to make my stomach twist.
Then he reaches in.
Takes a gingerbread cookie.
Bites.
Everything in him stops.
His eyes flutter shut.
His breath leaves him in a quiet, almost shaky exhale.
He tries to recover.
Fails.
"They are fine," he mutters.
I smile, soft and smug.
"You can say you like them."
He glares, but it’s useless now. He still reaches in for another.
The fire warms our faces.
The twinkle lights glow soft above us.
The storm rages outside, but inside the cabin a small, impossible bubble of safety grows around us.
And Ryder Pierce, the grumpiest, most guarded man I have ever met, keeps glancing at me like he cannot decide whether he wants to push me away or pull me closer.
Something warm curls low in my belly.
I dare to look back.
"Merry Christmas, Ryder," I whisper.
He goes still.
Breath caught.
Eyes darkening.
Then his gaze drops to my mouth.
Hungry in a way that steals every bit of air I thought I had left.
"Nikki," he says quietly. Roughly. Like my name is something dangerous in his mouth.
The space between us crackles.
Alive.
A pulse of heat that feels like it has been waiting the whole night to ignite.
I should look away.
I should breathe.
I should run.
I do none of those things.
I lean in, just a little.
Barely a breath.
His hand moves before I fully register it, fingers brushing my cheek, slow and careful, like he is giving me a chance to pull away.
I do not move.
His thumb grazes my skin, warm and calloused, and my whole body lights up.
He lowers his head.
The first brush of his mouth is soft.
Testing.
Almost questioning.
Then I exhale a sound I did not mean to make.
Something small.
Something hungry.
Something that answers whatever he was afraid to ask.
He kisses me again.
Not tentative this time.
Certain.
Deep enough that my breath disappears and my fingers curl into the front of his shirt.
Heat coils low in my body, sharp and sweet and overwhelming.
The world outside vanishes.
The storm.
The cold.
The loneliness.
All of it swallowed by the way Ryder pulls me closer, like he cannot stop himself.
Like he has been waiting for something warm to touch him for far too long.
When he finally pulls back, only an inch, his breathing is uneven.
So is mine.
His forehead rests against mine.
"Nikki," he murmurs, voice thick, "I should not..."
But his hand is still on my cheek.
His thumb still strokes my skin.
His lips are still close enough to taste my breath.
"You did," I whisper.
He swallows hard.
His thumb brushes my lower lip.
My breath catches.
“Nikki,” he murmurs, voice thick, “if I kiss you again, I’m not going to stop.”
My pulse stutters.
He looks at me like he’s fighting a war with himself. Then turns away sharply, dragging both hands through his hair.
“Go to bed,” he says. “Before I forget the line I’m supposed to hold.”
And just like that, nothing is the same.
Not anymore.