Chapter 2
Nash
She smells like cinnamon and bad decisions.
Red lipstick, combat boots, and an attitude I can already tell is going to give me an ulcer.
And now she’s in my goddamn cabin.
Humming.
Actually humming while she strings that sparkly tinsel shit across my bookshelf like she’s laying a trap.
Which she is.
Just not the kind I’m ready to fall into.
I lean in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her as snow needles the windows and the fire spits behind me. She hasn’t asked if she can stay. Hasn’t begged or apologized or offered to back her glitter-filled suitcase out the door.
Nope.
She just made herself at home. Claimed her corner. And now she's decorating my goddamn moose head.
“I swear to Christ,” I growl, “if you hot glue a Santa hat to Buckley’s skull—”
She tosses me a grin over her shoulder. “It’s not glue. It’s a festive headpiece. Temporary. Non-invasive. Very on-brand.”
“Buckley doesn’t want to be on brand.”
“Well, Buckley doesn’t have a say.”
I push off the frame, step closer, slow and heavy-footed just to make a point.
She doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t so much as blink when I come to stand behind her, close enough to smell her hair—vanilla and something bright, like orange zest and holiday mischief.
“I’m tryin’ to figure out why a pretty girl like you would answer a mail-order bride ad—runnin’ from the law, maybe? Or a crazy ex? What the hell are you really doing here, Noel?”
She reaches up to adjust the crooked Santa hat on the mounted moose and pretends not to notice the heat coming off me like a furnace.
“I told you,” she says sweetly. “Reality show. Contest. I win, you win. Everyone walks away richer and full of holiday spirit.”
“This isn’t a Hallmark movie.”
“No,” she says, spinning slowly to face me. Her gaze snags on my chest—still half bare, still damp from the shower she interrupted—and lingers a beat longer than it should.
When her eyes lift back to mine, they’re full of fire.
“This is better.”
Damn woman has no idea what she’s doing.
Or maybe she does.
Because even with the glitter and the chaos and the god-awful soundtrack she just put on my old Bluetooth speaker (is that Mariah Carey?), I haven’t told her to leave again.
Not since I made the mistake of noticing how her leggings hug her thighs.
Not since I saw the curve of her waist when she reached for that top shelf.
Not since I felt the spark in my blood when she smirked and called herself my bride.
Fake or not, something about it made the animal in me sit up and listen.
“I don’t like people in my space,” I say quietly.
Noel crosses her arms. “I’m not just any people.”
“Noticed.”
She smiles like I gave her a compliment.
Then ruins it by hanging a string of fairy lights over my front window.
“I want peace,” I grind out.
“You’ll get it. Right after we win.”
I stare at her.
Hard.
She stares back, unbothered, cheeks flushed from the fire and that smart mouth of hers working overtime to push every single one of my buttons.
Hell, maybe that’s the real reason I haven’t kicked her out yet.
I haven’t felt this alive in months. Maybe years.
She steps forward, chin tilted up.
“You gonna glare me out the door, mountain man? Or are you gonna help me hang these?”
She dangles a set of silver bells between us like a weapon.
I reach up, slow and controlled, and take them from her fingers.
For a second, we’re just... quiet. The sound of the storm outside, the hum of the fire, the soft static from her ridiculous holiday playlist.
Then I murmur, “You talk a lot.”
Her eyes spark. “And you grunt like a caveman.”
My mouth quirks. Just a little. “You got a thing for cavemen, sweetheart?”
“Only the ones who grunt like they fuck.”
That does it.
That flips the switch.
My hand’s still wrapped around the bells. Hers is still raised from passing them off. Our fingers brush, barely, and I swear I feel it in my spine.
“You should be careful,” I murmur, stepping closer, closing the gap inch by inch. “You say things like that and I might have to show you exactly how I—”
A sharp knock at the door slices through the air.
We both freeze.
She exhales slowly. “Saved by the bell.”
I let out a growl as I stalk toward the door, every nerve in my body still humming.
I don’t know who the hell’s dumb enough to hike this far up Devil’s Peak in the middle of a snowstorm, but unless they’re carrying a bottle of whiskey and a shovel, they better have a damn good reason.
I yank the door open—and there’s nothing.
No one.
Just a gust of wind and snow and a cardboard box sitting on the front step.
Noel sidles up behind me. “Ooooh, a mystery. I love mysteries.”
She brushes past me to grab the box.
Of course she does.
I let the door slam shut behind her as she rips the top off and peers inside.
Her eyes light up.
“Oh my God,” she gasps. “They overnighted the garland! The good stuff!”
I groan. “There’s more?”
“There’s always more.”
She sets the box on the couch and starts unpacking ornaments like a kid on Christmas morning.
And me?
I watch her.
Watch the way her mouth twists as she concentrates. Watch the sway of her hips as she digs through decorations. Watch the way she hums again—this time to herself, quieter, like she forgot I’m still here.
I should stop this.
I should.
But I don’t.
Because if I’m honest?
Part of me wants to see what happens when the storm traps us.
When the power flickers and the fire’s all we’ve got.
When those bells end up hanging over the bed instead of the window.
Because for all her chaos and color and completely uninvited presence…
Noel Hart just turned my quiet little mountain into a powder keg.
And I’ve got a match.
***
Snow drums steady on the tin roof, wind sighing through the pines. The kind of quiet that used to feel like peace.
Not tonight.
Because she’s here—all pink lips and Christmas chaos—standing in the middle of my bedroom, hands on her hips, staring at the single bed like I’m the devil himself.
“There’s only one?” she asks, voice pitching up like she’s caught between disbelief and laughter.
“One bed,” I confirm, dragging a hand through my hair. “This ain’t the Ritz.”
Her eyes dart from the bed, then back to me. “Guess I’ll take the couch then.”
“No, ma’am.” I drop my flannel over the chair and head for the fire. “You’re not sleeping on that thing. Springs’ll bite through before midnight.”
She crosses her arms, that soft sweater pulling tight across her chest. “You’re saying you’re too much of a gentleman to let me take the couch?”
I glance over my shoulder, let my gaze drag slow enough to make her squirm. “Didn’t say I was a gentleman. Said I’m not an asshole.”
She laughs, light and sharp. “I don’t know, Nash. Jury’s still out.”
“Keep talkin’, you’ll find out.”
Her lips twitch. She likes the sparring—hell, she might live for it. I poke the fire until sparks jump and lick the air, then turn back to her. She’s standing there with her hands on her suitcase, debating something behind those big eyes.
Finally, she says it. “Fine. I’ll take the bed.”
“Good choice.”
“I’m warning you,” she says, voice lilting like a dare, “I only sleep naked.”
My grip on the poker tightens. The fire hisses. She’s watching me now, waiting for a reaction, probably expecting me to stammer or blush.
Not likely.
“Then you’ll freeze,” I say, low, steady. “Cabin gets cold at night.”
Her brows lift, like she’s trying to decide if I’m serious. “You’re impossible.”
“Not wrong.” I toss her one of my old white T-shirts from the dresser. “Here. Use that before I have to start my New Year’s confessional early.”
Her mouth opens, but she catches the shirt midair. “Oh, so chivalry does exist.”
“No,” I mutter, walking past her, “self-preservation does.”
She heads to the bathroom, door closing—mostly. A small gap remains, just wide enough to test my resolve.
The light spills out across the floor, catching the edge of her legs. I see movement, the shadow of her pulling off her sweater, the curve of her hip as she tugs at her jeans. My throat locks.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
I fail for half a second.
She bends, hair sliding forward, skin pale and soft under the amber light, and for a heartbeat I forget how to breathe. My pulse hammers so loud I’m sure she hears it.
Then the light clicks off. The door opens.
And Noel Hart—chaos in boots and a heart too bright for this world—steps out wearing my shirt and nothing else.
Jesus Christ.
The hem hits high on her thighs. The neckline hangs low enough that I see the hint of skin, collarbone to cleavage. She’s a damn fever dream standing in my cabin, smiling like she doesn’t know she’s burning the place down.
“It’s comfy,” she says, tugging the hem. “Smells like pine and danger.”
I choke out a laugh. “You smell like trouble.”
She grins. “Guess we’re even then.”
I turn down the bed, forcing my hands to move slow, controlled. “You get the left.”
She eyes the bed, then the couch. “You sure?”
“Take the bed, Hart.”
Her chin tilts. “Fine. But I’m building a wall.”
She grabs pillows—four, maybe five—and stacks them down the center of the mattress like she’s dividing property lines.
I cross my arms, leaning against the wall. “You think that’s gonna stop anything?”
“From what?” she teases. “You rolling over in your sleep and attacking me with a power tool?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
She slides under the blankets, the rustle of sheets sounding far dirtier than it should. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen the way you look at me.”
I bark out a laugh. “You’ve got an imagination.”
“Maybe.” She rolls onto her side, eyes glinting in the firelight. “But I think you like me.”
“Like you?” I walk to the bed, plant my hands on the headboard, lean in close enough for her to smell the woodsmoke on my skin. “You talk too much. You leave glitter everywhere. You nearly burned my kitchen down making cocoa an hour ago.”
Her smile grows. “That wasn’t a no.”
“Go to sleep, Hart.”
She sighs, long and dramatic, like she’s doing it just to get under my skin. “Goodnight, mountain man.”
I grunt, slide under the covers on my side, keeping the pillow wall intact. The fire snaps low. The storm outside howls, wrapping the cabin in a steady hum.
Minutes stretch. Maybe hours.
But I don’t sleep.
Because she’s here, breathing slow on the other side of that stupid pillow barrier, her warmth leaking across the divide. Every time she shifts, the sheet moves, whispering against skin. Every inhale smells faintly of vanilla and smoke and something else—something that makes my chest ache.
I stare at the ceiling, jaw tight, every muscle strung taut.
I’ve been alone for a long damn time. Liked it that way. No noise, no clutter, no distractions. But this woman—this loud, messy, brilliant little storm—has turned my quiet into something I can’t stand anymore.
And for the first time, I wonder if I even want the silence back.
Hours later, I hear her sigh. The soft sound of her shivering.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
I turn over. The fire’s burned down to embers. She’s curled tight, shoulders shaking under the blanket.
Screw the pillow wall.
I push it aside and slide closer, careful but not careful enough. The second my arm wraps around her, she melts into me—instinctive, perfect. Her back presses to my chest, her hair brushes my jaw. Heat blooms between us, slow and dangerous.
She sighs, whispering something that sounds like my name before going still.
I should pull away. I should put the pillows back, draw the lines we both agreed on.
Instead, I tighten my hold.
Her body fits against mine like we were built for this. My hand rests against her stomach, her breath feathering against my forearm. She shifts once, settling back, and the movement drags her hips against mine.
I swear under my breath, low and rough.
Because now I’m wide awake. And she’s warm, soft, perfect—and completely off-limits.
Her breathing evens out again. I stare at the dying fire and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to survive the night.
Minutes crawl by, slow torture.
She moves again—small, unconscious—and my self-control shatters one crack at a time.
Her hair brushes my lips. I breathe her in. Vanilla. Sleep. Sin.
She whispers something again, maybe just a dream sound, but I can’t help it—I murmur, “Go back to sleep, sunshine.”
Her fingers find mine under the blanket, tangle just enough to ruin me.
My chest tightens, the kind of ache that feels too good to be safe. Because it’s not just desire clawing at me anymore—it’s something deeper. Something that feels a lot like need.
I close my eyes. Try to slow my breathing.
She shifts once more, pressing closer. My hand slides an inch lower on instinct, fingers brushing the curve of her hip.
She stills.
And for a heartbeat, I think she’s awake. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just breathes, slow and even, as if she trusts me completely.
I don’t deserve that.
I press my forehead against the back of her neck and whisper, “You’re killing me, Hart.”
Her only answer is a soft sigh, barely audible over the storm outside.
I stay awake the rest of the night, counting every second between her breaths.
Wondering how something this small—one woman, one night, one goddamn bed—could burn hotter than any fire I’ve ever fought.
And when dawn finally breaks through the window, pale light spilling over her skin, I know one thing for sure—
This isn’t just some city girl snowed into my cabin anymore.
This is the one woman who’s gonna wreck me.
And maybe…I’ll let her.