Chapter 5 Noel
Noel
“Let me get this straight…” I say later that night as I slide a baking sheet into Nash Hollis’s ancient oven and smirk at the man currently glaring at the pile of flour on the counter like it personally offended him. “You don’t know how to make cookies?”
“I know how to eat cookies,” he mutters, arms crossed, that mountain of a chest stretching his flannel until I’m questioning the integrity of the buttons.
“You don’t say.” I lick a smear of chocolate from my finger just to watch his jaw tick.
“Baking’s not exactly a survival skill.”
“Well, good thing you’ve got me. I’ve got enough sugar to kill a horse and questionable taste in frosting colors. What could go wrong?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just narrows his eyes like he’s sizing up the enemy—which, judging by the flour now coating his beard, might be the hand mixer.
I snort.
“You know,” I say, turning toward the counter, “you could try to have fun.”
“I am having fun,” he deadpans.
“Right. You look absolutely thrilled.”
“You’re in my cabin. You’ve taken over my kitchen. You keep singing Mariah Carey.”
“Exactly. A Christmas miracle.”
His eyes drop to my lips when I laugh, and the air shifts—thicker, charged. The kind of silence that crackles.
I pretend I don’t notice.
Grab the bag of powdered sugar and toss it onto the counter. It explodes. White dust everywhere. All over me.
I yelp.
“Goddammit,” I cough, waving a hand in front of my face, now powdered like a sugarplum ghost. “Okay. That’s it.”
He raises an eyebrow as I walk toward him with dangerous intent.
“Don’t you dare—”
I smear my sugar-covered hand across his chest.
He growls.
Literally.
“You have two seconds to run, cupcake.”
I don’t.
Instead, I flick sugar at his nose.
“Oops.”
He grabs me.
Effortless.
One minute I’m smug and sticky, the next I’m airborne, tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I shriek, laughing and kicking, but he’s solid. Immovable.
And growling again.
“Put me down!”
“Say you surrender.”
“Never!”
He smacks my ass lightly. “Suit yourself.”
He dumps me onto the couch with a bounce, towering over me, and suddenly the room tilts. His eyes are dark. Focused. Tracking every movement I make like I’m prey.
My chest rises. Falls. Rises faster.
His fingers trace the edge of frosting on my collarbone. “You’re a mess.”
“Always.”
“Bet you taste like sugar.”
“I taste better than that.”
He leans in.
“Prove it.”
His lips are inches from mine.
My pulse spikes.
His hand slides along my jaw, rough and warm, and I forget how to breathe. Forget where I am. Forget that I came here for a TV show and not to fall into a blizzard of lust and flannel.
BANG BANG BANG.
We both freeze.
The front door rattles like someone’s trying to punch it down.
“For the love of—” Nash bites off the curse, scowling as he storms over to the door. “If it’s those damn raccoons again—”
He throws it open.
It’s not a raccoon.
It’s a woman. Mid-sixties. Cheeks pink from the cold. Drenched in snow and carrying a tray of what looks like canned cranberry Jell-O molded into a Santa shape.
“Hi there, Nash!” she chirps, peering around him and spotting me still on the couch, hair powdered in sugar, shirt slightly askew.
Her brows shoot up.
“Oh my.”
“Ms. Dottie,” Nash says through clenched teeth. “It’s… not a good time.”
“Oh, don’t be silly! I was just in the neighborhood and figured I’d drop off a little something sweet for you before the next big storm hits tonight!” She eyes me again. “But I can see you already found that.”
I nearly choke.
Nash groans.
I sit up, cheeks flaming. “Hi, I’m—uh—Noel.”
Dottie’s grin is positively wicked. “Yes, dear. I heard all about you down at The Devil’s Brew. So you’re the… bride?”
I open my mouth. Close it. “Temporarily?”
She winks. “Well, I just love holiday romances.”
“Not a romance,” Nash grumbles.
“I’m rooting for you anyway,” Dottie says. “You know where to find me if you need a wedding officiant. I’ve got a license. And a karaoke machine.”
She disappears into the night with a flurry of snowflakes and bad timing, leaving us staring at the door she just closed behind her.
Nash doesn’t speak.
He just exhales and mutters, “We were so close.”
My heartbeat hasn’t slowed. My mouth still tingles.
I glance at him, then down at the tray of Santa-shaped Jell-O in his hands. “Your girlfriend’s intense.”
“That woman once proposed during a turkey raffle after too much cocoa and Kahlua.”
I snort. “Kinky.”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“No promises.”
He looks at me again. And this time, it’s not teasing.
It’s loaded.
And dangerous.
And says next time, no one’s interrupting.
But for now… I just grab another handful of frosting, swipe it across my lips, and lick it off slowly.
He growls again.
And I grin.
This war’s only getting started.