Chapter 14
HAZEL
“What do I even wear to meet…” My voice trails off as I stand in the middle of my living room, sweaters dangling from my hands.
Meet what, exactly? Meet Benjamin’s family?
Meet Benjamin as… what? He hadn’t exactly asked me to be his girlfriend.
He’d just said he didn’t want me to be alone on Christmas.
I touch my lips, as if I can still feel the phantom press of his mouth against mine.
It lingers like a brand, a memory stitched onto my skin.
My gaze flicks to the mistletoe still hanging above the front door.
My pulse quickens. That’s where it happened—where he kissed me like I wasn’t just a stranger he’d rescued, but something more.
Until I’d pulled away. Closed down. And then he found me again as if we were two magnets drawn together.
“You can do this.”
I glance at the overnight bag waiting by the pile of blankets in front of the fireplace.
Even with the heater fixed and the power back on, I’d slept there every night since.
It was warmer there. It reminded me of that stormy night—Benjamin’s solid body pressed against mine, keeping me safe, keeping me warm, like the world could fall apart outside and it wouldn’t matter.
Why had I pulled away the first time he kissed me?
Because I’m a fool.
And maybe I was a fool now, for saying yes to his invitation. To meeting his family. To stepping deeper into something I couldn’t stop wanting.
My gaze drifts to the corner where my beautiful tree twinkles, decorated within an inch of its life with childhood ornaments and sparkling lights.
A few carefully wrapped boxes sit beneath it—gifts for myself, and one for Pretzel.
But even with the effort, it still feels…
empty. Hollow. Like the air was missing something.
Pretzel chitters from the nest of blankets, as if reading my thoughts. I smile and scratch under his chin before holding up two sweaters. One was new, navy blue—the color made my eyes pop. The other was older, worn soft with years, a gift from my mother in college. Cozy. Safe.
“What do you think, Pretzel?” I ask.
He tilts his tiny head, then promptly scrambles toward my bag, snuffling at it as if to say just pack already.
“You’re right. He’ll be here any moment. I need to finish.”
I’d just gotten my car back from the shop—the front bumper and tires had been replaced after my little misadventure—but it didn’t matter. Benjamin had insisted on driving me up the mountain himself, said the plows wouldn’t clear their private drive and his truck could handle it better anyway.
I toss both sweaters into the bag, add two pairs of fuzzy socks, gloves, a scarf, and toiletries. The bag feels heavier than it should when I zip it up, like it’s packed with all my nerves. I’m just tugging on my snow boots when a firm knock sounds at the door.
My heart lurches.
I nearly trip in my rush to the front hall. I swing the door open and—
There he is.
Benjamin stands in the doorway like some lumberjack god, framed in falling snow, flannel stretched across his broad shoulders.
His dark hair is damp at the edges, cheeks flushed from the cold.
His eyes—intense and stormy—drop down my body once before flicking back up to my face, and my skin prickles hot beneath my sweater.
My gaze betrays me, darting to his waist as if expecting the ax to still be strapped there, before snapping guiltily back to his face.
“No ax?” I blurt, because apparently my brain chooses chaos when faced with his presence.
His smirk is slow and devastating. He leans against the doorframe like he owns the space, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Why? Do you need more wood?”
The innuendo in his voice nearly knocks me over. My cheeks blaze hotter than the fire in the hearth.
“Nope.” My voice comes out embarrassingly squeaky. I clear my throat and try again. “Nope. All stocked.”
“Mhmm.” His gaze lingers, steady and smoldering, like he can see right through every layer I’ve wrapped myself in. The way he looks at me makes my whole body heat, and I have to fight not to squirm under it.
“I—uh—let me just grab my stuff.”
I spin on my heel, clutching for composure, but the flutter in my chest gives me away.
Pretzel chitters again, as if laughing at me.
I scoop him up, grab my bag from beside the couch, then head into the kitchen for the box of candies I’d packed from the shop—something to distract me, something to keep my hands busy when all I wanted to do was touch him again.
Behind me, Benjamin clears his throat, and I swear I can feel the weight of his gaze sliding over me like a physical thing.
“What’s that?” He nods to the box in my hands.
“It’s nothing. Just some candies from the shop and a bottle of wine. I thought I’d bring a small gift.”
“You didn’t have to bring anything but yourself,” he replies, taking the bag, candy box, and bottle from my hands.
“I know, but it felt weird showing up empty-handed.”
I turn the deadbolt and follow Benjamin out to the truck.
The air bites at my cheeks, sending tiny needles of cold up my neck despite my scarf.
I pull open the passenger door and slide in, the seat swallowing me in leather that smells faintly of pine, cinnamon, and him—a rugged, outdoorsy scent that suddenly feels like home.
“Feel free to play anything you want,” he offers as he buckles in, then eases the truck into reverse and onto the slick road heading for the freeway.
I lean across and start flipping through the radio presets: country, classic rock, then the cheesiest, most glittery pop-Christmas station. A ridiculous grin spreads across my face when the tinny intro to “Santa Baby” starts.
“Of course you’d choose this one,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement as he merges onto the highway. Headlights slice through the flurry now—snowflakes pirouetting in the beams, dotting the windshield like confetti.
“You said I could pick. It was one of your presets. Are you telling me you’re a grumpy bear?” I tease.
He tenses beside me, shoulders squaring—sudden, contained heat radiating off him.
“What? Did I say something wrong?”
“No—” He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s just weird. Of all the stations, that’s the one my brother programmed.”
He makes a noise that might be a laugh or a growl.
“What’s wrong with Christmas rock?” I ask.
“Nothing at all. It suits you.” He exhales, readjusting his grip on the wheel. “I’m not used to anyone riding with me except him.”
He reaches over, fingers brushing my sleeve as he cranks up the music.
The touch lingers, and heat pools low in my belly despite the cold.
The song swells, and I can’t help myself—I hum along, soft at first, then louder.
By the third chorus, I’m belting off-key to “Little Saint Nick,” laughing when he rolls his eyes in mock horror.
“You’re lucky I don’t throw you out into the snow,” he grumbles, but his tone is all playful threat, and his fingers drum on the wheel in time with the chorus.
“Please.” I wag a finger at him. “What would you tell your parents if you did that? ‘Oh hi, Mom. I left a witch on the side of the road. You invited her to Christmas, but she was annoying and sang horribly the entire drive. I couldn’t stand another minute.’”
He snorts. “I’m sure I could think of something. Plus, I’d get to keep those treats all to myself.” He jerks his chin at the box between my feet.
I glance down, fingers already inching toward the lid. “You’d give yourself a stomachache. There’s enough sugar in here to feed a whole family of bears.”
“Oh, if only you knew,” he murmurs.