Chapter 1 #2
“I’m okay,” I call, inching up. The star tilts. So does the world.
I don’t fall. Not technically. The snow under the ladder slips, the whole thing skews, and my boot twists, sending sharp, hot pain through my ankle.
Before I can yelp, he’s on the ladder, one forearm caging the rung, the other sliding around my waist. I end up against his chest with my heart trying to relocate to his shirt pocket.
His body is solid, hot even through our layers, and I feel every hard inch of him where we touch—his arm tight around my waist, his chest like a furnace against my cheek. I don’t move. Don’t want to.
His breath is rough next to my ear. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
The star dangles from one wire, swaying harmlessly. The world steadies. My heart doesn’t. Neither do the parts of me that think nearly falling off a ladder into the arms of the most attractive man I’ve ever met count as foreplay.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, not moving.
“Don’t lie to me, Angel. You twisted it.”
“It’s minor.” I wince when my foot touches snow.
Without asking, he scoops me up, solid and sure.
“W-what are you—”
“Taking you back to your shop,” he says, like he’s accepting a mission.
“Grady, seriously, I’m too heavy—”
His arms tighten just a little, voice low. “You’re perfect. Now stop arguing.”
The words knock the air right out of me. No one’s ever said that to me. Not like that. Not with heat and hunger and something gentler curled inside it. I want to believe him. My body already does.
Mary’s watching with her entire heart in her eyes. “Oh, let him fuss, Angel. It’s been too long since Grady had someone to fuss over.”
I’m too flustered to argue. My arms loop around his neck automatically. He smells like cedar, snow, and something faintly smoky, like nights spent near a campfire.
We leave the ranch behind, snow creaking under his boots, and head back to Main Street. Mistletoe Mug glows in the distance, windows fogged from the espresso machine and strung with white lights. The sign in the window reads Believe in Small Miracles—and a Latte Bit of Love.
His stride is steady, but everything inside me feels like it’s jolting loose.
Every bounce of my body against his chest reminds me I’m not wearing the thickest bra.
That I’m holding onto him too tightly. He smells like pine smoke and snow and something so masculine and warm it short-circuits my brain and makes me want to dream about him naked.
Grady exhales sharply as he adjusts me in his arms. It’s not a grunt of effort—it’s something else. Like a man trying hard not to want something too much, too soon. He carries me right through the door, the bell chiming overhead. The smell of coffee and sugar wraps around us.
Jamie freezes mid-pour, the milk pitcher halfway to the cup, eyes wide. “Wow. That’s not how I expected you to bring in new customers.”
“Hey, Jamie. Twisted ankle,” I manage. “Minor accident. Not kidnapping.”
Grady carries me past curious customers and into the back room, lowering me onto a stool like I’m made of spun glass. “Ice?”
“Freezer, behind the cinnamon-scented snowballs,” I murmur helpfully.
He finds it, wraps a towel around the pack, and kneels to press it against my ankle. His hands are rough and warm, sending a shiver up my spine that makes me forget about the pain.
“You’re good at this,” I whisper.
“Years of practice in bad places with limited medical supplies,” he says evenly.
It’s what he doesn’t say that tugs at something in my chest. I have a sudden urge to cry for reasons that have nothing to do with my swollen ankle.
I can’t stop watching his hands. Big, scarred, competent hands. I bet he’s the kind of man who could take apart a generator and make me come with the same calm certainty.
The thought shocks me.
I’ve literally just met the man, yet he’s stirring something low and insistent in me I’ve never experienced before. Not just lust, though that’s definitely happening. It’s this... awareness. As if my body has been asleep, and he’s the first real thing I’ve touched in a long time.
His knuckles brush my ankle again as he adjusts the ice pack, and a shiver dances up my spine. He doesn’t look up, but my skin hums like it knows he’s going to matter.
My cheeks burn. I’m not this girl. I don’t swoon. I certainly don’t get turned on by first-aid.
But with him?
I want to climb that ladder again so I have an excuse to fall into his arms.
God help me.
Grady secures the towel with an elastic like he’s done this more times than he wants to count. When he ties it off, his knuckles brush my skin. Heat zigzags through me, sudden and bright.
I know he feels it too because his breath hitches and his jaw flexes.
I swallow. “Thank you, Grady.”
When he stands, he nods toward the window where snow is falling softly and relentlessly. “Storm’s coming in. Stay off that foot.”
“Is that an order?” I tease.
“A request.” He looks at me then, and the flicker of warmth in his silver eyes feels like the first spark in a cold hearth. My heart does the thing again—swoop, tumble, and land somewhere inconvenient.
“I should head back to the ranch,” he says, heading for the door.
“Okay. Thanks again for carrying the wreath. And, you know, me. And for the whole first-aid thing.” I can hear myself babbling, but stopping’s never been my strong suit.
Grady pauses with his hand on the knob. “Angel,” he says without looking back.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t climb any more ladders without me.”
The bell jingles. The door clicks, and he’s gone.
Tall and solid as he strides into the falling snow, carrying a quiet gravity that makes the whole world—and me—lean toward him.
I don’t know him. But some reckless part of me is already imagining how he’d feel under my hands.
How he’d taste. I’m an idiot. Or maybe I’m awake for the first time in years.
Jamie appears in the doorway, still clutching the milk pitcher. “So… that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I laugh weakly, staring at the door. “Yeah,” I breathe. “Yeah, it was.”