Chapter 8
HAZEL
I sit on the living room floor with bated breath, staring at the door Benjamin just disappeared through.
Guilt twists my stomach, sharp as pine needles.
Of all the things to say, why had I fixated on that ridiculous tree?
I should’ve been grateful. He not only rescued me from freezing on the side of the road but brought me, Pretzel, my car, and yes, even the tree back in one piece.
Well, almost one piece.
I flex my toes, hissing as pain lances through my ankle. Not broken, just angry and sprained. A fracture feels different. I know. Years ago, I fractured my arm at summer camp hanging a banner on the last day and fell off the ladder, landing on my outstretched arm. Eight miserable weeks in a cast.
At least it had been my arm and not my head. That was when I wished I had levitation or healing magic instead of water manipulation. I’d still been home with Mom and Dad, who helped me make the most of my recovery while I searched for jobs and finished my final semester of school.
A lot of good that had done me—earning a bachelor’s in art with a major in photography. And now, somehow, I’m in a tiny forest town in the Pacific Northwest, working in a candy shop.
I give my head a shake, banishing the ache of memory. This move was supposed to be my clean slate. My fresh start. A place to heal, not unravel.
A muffled grunt outside yanks me from my thoughts. My gaze flicks to the door. Snow swirls harder now, just like when I first slid off the freeway. My chest tightens. Benjamin’s out there, braving the storm like some kind of storybook lumberjack to get my car in the drive and my tree inside.
And I’m in here… feeling useless.
I hobble to the kitchen, candle in hand, and strike a match to coax a flame from the gas stove.
Then I light a dozen more candles until the room glows with warm light.
I fill the cast-iron kettle and set it to boil while scooping powdered cocoa into two mugs—mini marshmallows included.
Not from scratch, but they’re their own kind of holiday magic. Only a grinch would complain.
The door bursts open with a blast of wind, and suddenly he’s there.
My eyes betray me, snagging on the broad sweep of his shoulders as Benjamin carries the Christmas tree inside like it’s nothing more than kindling.
Flannel stretches across his chest, damp from snow, his jaw set in that broody, I-told-you-so way that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.
“Hazel,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “What are you doing up?”
“Making cocoa.” I lift a spoon as proof.
He narrows his gaze, shaking snow from his hair. “I told you to stay in the living room and not hurt yourself.”
“Relax.” I arch a brow. “It’s hot chocolate, not chainsaw juggling.”
His lips twitch—almost a smile. Almost. “Your ankle—”
“Is fine,” I cut in. “I’ve been surviving fine on my own since—” My throat closes over the unspoken words.
“Since what?” Benjamin asks as he carries the tree to the far corner of the living room and props it against the wall.
“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter, lifting the whistling kettle off the stove to fill my mug.
Something flickers in his eyes, like he wants to ask more, but instead, he sighs, crosses the room, and kicks the door shut against the storm.
“I love cocoa,” he murmurs.
That startles a laugh out of me. “What?”
“I said I love cocoa. Especially with the little marshmallows.” He leans against the counter separating the living room from the kitchen.
For a moment, he’s not the stoic rescuer but just a man who likes simple comforts. I shove my favorite mug into his hands. “Then here. Consider it… a peace offering.”
Our fingers brush. Warmth and magic spark up my arm, heady and distracting. His blue eyes meet mine—too bright, too intense—and for a second, I swear they flash gold. I blink, and the moment’s gone.
He downs the cocoa in three gulps, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing, and my brain short-circuits.
How can a man make drinking hot chocolate look indecent?
“Thank you,” he says with satisfaction, setting the mug in the sink.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I reply, blowing on my own mug before taking a tentative sip. The cocoa is scalding, almost too hot to drink. How had he managed to down it so fast?
“Benjamin—”
Before I can decide if I should laugh or fan myself, he’s moving again.
“I’m going to chop some wood before the snow gets worse and see if I can get your fireplace working. I’d warn you not to move, but clearly you’re not going to listen. At least try to be careful.” He turns on his heel, unbuckling the ax from his belt as he disappears into the yard.
I return to the living room, setting a few candles and my cocoa on the mantle before turning to my tree.
I coo at it, brushing the pine needles. Pretzel pokes his head from my pocket, and I pull him out, setting him on the ground.
He sniffs the base of the trunk before padding to his plush bed and curling up, eyes closing instantly.
“Rest up, buddy. It’s been a long day.”
I watch from the blankets as Benjamin strides through the snow, ax glinting in his hand.
A ridiculous pang of want pools low in my stomach as he splits a log clean in half.
Muscles flex. Snow clings to his flannel.
When he catches me watching from the window, heat rushes to my cheeks and I jerk away.
A gentleman, I remind myself. He’s just a gentleman who couldn’t leave me stranded.
But then he comes back inside, snow-dusted and larger than life, kneeling at the hearth. He shines the flashlight up the chute and pulls a handle I couldn’t budge earlier. With a grinding sound, it turns, soot falling into the grate along with a soft whistle of wind.
“Well, you’re in luck. Your chimney seems to be in working order. Do you have any old newspapers?” Benjamin asks as he stacks the logs.
“Yes, in the recycling bin in the kitchen. I just unpacked the dishes.” I gesture to the other room.
He moves into the kitchen and returns with a few crumpled pages and the box of matches. With a few practiced moves, he coaxes flames to life; the room glows warm and golden.
I smile, breathless despite myself. “That was amazing.”
He rubs the back of his neck, gaze skittering away. “It’s nothing. Couldn’t live with myself if you froze out here alone.”
The words should feel casual. But they don’t.
“Of course. You probably need to get back home.” I glance at my phone. Past midnight. My battery’s a pitiful five percent, the red icon glaring at me like it’s personally offended. At least I have tomorrow off, so if it dies before the power returns, I won’t wake up late for work.
Benjamin doesn’t even glance at my phone or the storm outside. Instead, his eyes sweep the dark room, then land on the leaning pine against the wall. “Well, your tree still needs to be set up. Where’s your tree stand?”
I freeze. My heart drops into my stomach. “Tree stand?”
He arches a brow, all rugged patience.
Groaning, I bury my face in my hands. “I don’t have one. I was just excited, okay? I got the tree but didn’t quite make it to the how to keep it from crashing to the floor part.”
One corner of his mouth quirks. “Rookie mistake.”
“Don’t mock me. This is my first Christmas on my own, thank you very much.”
“Well, lucky for you,” he muses, as though I’ve been waiting all evening for him to swoop in like some holiday lumberjack knight, “I have one in the back of the truck.”
Before I can even sputter a protest, he vanishes into the storm and reappears moments later, carrying a green metal stand. Snowflakes cling to his beard and hair, glinting in the candlelight like flecks of silver.
I really need to stop staring.
He crouches in the corner to wrestle the tree into the stand, muscles flexing under his flannel.
“Ouch.”
My head snaps up. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” he says too quickly, bringing his hand to his mouth.
I hobble forward despite his glare. “What do you mean, nothing? You just hissed like a vampire facing daylight.”
He waves me off. “It’s fine. Sit down, Hazel. I’m almost done.”
“That’s not nothing. You’ve cut yourself.” I catch a glimpse of red on his palm, and my stomach twists.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not fine with you bleeding all over my brand-new-to-me floor.” I plant my hands on my hips. “Give me your hand.”
His eyes narrow, and for a heartbeat, it’s a standoff. Then he sighs, muttering something under his breath about stubborn women, and reluctantly holds it out.
“Good boy.” I turn on my heel, limping toward the kitchen where I’d stashed the first-aid kit.
“I’m not a dog, and it’s just a scratch,” he calls after me.
“Uh-huh. That’s what all tough guys say right before they pass out from tetanus.”
He actually chuckles, low and rough. “Pretty sure tetanus doesn’t work that fast.”
When I return, I set the kit on the floor and gently take his hand. Even cut, his palm is rough and warm against mine, sending tingles up my arm. I push that thought aside and focus on cleaning the wound.
The moment the antiseptic touches skin, he hisses and tries to yank his hand back.
“That hurts,” he growls through clenched teeth.
I tighten my grip. “If I don’t clean it, you’ll get an infection. Now stop being a baby.”
His eyes flash dangerously, but he doesn’t pull away again. “If I didn’t have to set up this damn tree, I wouldn’t have been cut in the first place.”
My gaze snaps up to meet his. “You didn’t have to rescue me, either.”
His jaw ticks, something raw sparking in his expression. “I couldn’t have left you alone and cold on that mountain.”
The silence that follows feels charged, heavy with everything unsaid. My chest tightens as I carefully bandage his palm, curling his fingers closed when I’m done. The cut already looks smaller, less angry.
What are you, Benjamin?
“Thank you. For everything,” I whisper. My voice wobbles despite my best efforts to keep it steady.
As the snow thickens outside, trapping us together in flickering firelight, I can’t help thinking that maybe the real danger tonight isn’t my ankle or the storm.
It’s him.
He clears his throat, stepping back quickly, as though putting space between us will make the moment less intimate. “I should get back to the farm before the roads get worse. Your tree’s all set up. You just need to fill the basin with water.”
I force a smile, trying to ignore the sudden hollow ache in my chest. “Yeah. And I’ve got to decorate this thing.” I kneel beside the cardboard boxes, digging through tangled strands of lights and ornaments that jingle softly in the quiet room.
He lingers for a heartbeat, then finally says, “Have a good night, Hazel.”
The door shuts behind him, and just like that, the silence feels sharper—lonelier—than it has in months.
I pace around the kitchen, refilling my cocoa just to keep my hands busy. With no electricity for Christmas carols, I hum under my breath, trying to fill the emptiness. The sound feels small, swallowed by the storm.
Then—three sharp knocks.
My heart jumps to my throat as I hurry to the door, breathless.
When I pull it open, Benjamin stands on the porch, snow-dusted and impossibly solid, as though he belongs here.
He looks like he stepped straight out of one of those Hallmark movies I grew up watching—except broader, rougher, and entirely too real.
“You came back?” The words tumble out before I can catch them.
“I forgot to tell you how to extinguish the fire once it’s warm enough so you’re safe while you sleep,” he says, voice low, eyes flicking past me to the flickering candlelight. “Didn’t want you waking up to a house full of smoke.”
“That’s thoughtful,” I murmur, glancing behind him. His truck is barely visible from the street through the storm. “But you can’t drive home in this. You can’t even see your truck.”
“I’ve driven in worse.” His tone is calm, but his jaw flexes, betraying him.
“I doubt it. I can barely see you standing in front of me.”
His lips twitch. “Stubborn.”
“Look who’s talking,” I mutter—and then his hand is suddenly there, warm fingers tilting my chin up, steady and firm.
My breath catches. Blue eyes, storm-bright, hold mine. And just above us, swaying slightly from the draft of the open door, hangs the sprig of mistletoe I’d pinned earlier for luck.
His gaze flicks upward, then back to me.
“Hazel…” He whispers my name like a prayer.
And then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is fierce, consuming—the kind that makes my toes curl and thoughts scatter. He tastes of cocoa and winter air, of pine and something wilder. His arm circles my waist, pulling me flush against him, as though space itself is unbearable.
When he finally breaks away, we’re both breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps, voice rough. “I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s mistletoe,” I cut in, too fast, too flustered. “Tradition. Doesn’t mean anything.”
My heart slams against my ribs at the lie, and for a split second I see it hit him—his face tightening before he schools it smooth.
“Of course,” he agrees quietly, pulling back into himself. “Tradition.”
The word aches, and I immediately regret saying it.
I scramble to fix it, rubbing my arms against the cold that suddenly feels sharper. I bounce on my feet for emphasis, wincing as pain lances up my ankle. “Why don’t you come in? No sense freezing twice.”
His gaze drops to my ankle, then back to my face, conflicted. Before I can blink, he scoops me up, one arm under my knees, the other steady against my back.
“Benjamin—”
“You’re freezing,” he growls softly, carrying me over the threshold like some holiday cliché—except my pulse is too wild and my cheeks too hot to laugh.
He sets me down gently in the nest of blankets by the fire, the glow washing over his sharp features, softening them. “Stay put this time.”
“Bossy,” I murmur, though the word comes out breathless.
He ignores me, tossing another log on the flames before sliding down beside me.
“You’re freezing. Let me warm you up.” His arm lifts in invitation, and I sink into his warmth without hesitation.
The storm howls outside, but in here it’s just the thrum of his heartbeat, steady against my cheek.
“You smell like pine trees and cinnamon,” I whisper, lids growing heavy, lulled by fire and body heat.
His chest rumbles with a laugh, low and soft. “And you smell like trouble.”
My smile fades as sleep pulls me under, but one thought lingers, sharp and undeniable.
Tradition, my ass. It may not have meant anything to the lumberjack—but to me, that kiss meant everything.