Chapter 6 Nash
Nash
The storm howls like it’s got a personal grudge against my roof.
Wind slaps the windows. Ice pelts the glass. The wood stove crackles like it’s trying to be louder than Noel’s damn Christmas playlist that keeps bouncing between sultry jazz and some pop singer moaning about mistletoe.
I could shut it off. Should.
But she’s sitting on the floor in front of the fire, legs tucked under her in candy cane-striped socks, grinning like she doesn’t even notice the blizzard outside—or that she’s turned my cabin into Santa’s bachelor pad.
And I… can’t stop looking at her.
Worse, I don’t want to.
She tilts her head, mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “You look like you’re planning an escape.”
“I was.”
Her smile widens. “Let me guess—through the chimney?”
“No, I was gonna toss you in it.”
“Please. You’d miss me within the hour.”
“You think highly of yourself.”
She shrugs. “I do.”
I grunt and take another sip of whiskey, letting it burn the tension sitting low in my gut.
It doesn’t help.
She picks up a wine bottle and pours herself another glass. I watch the red swirl. Watch her lips wrap around the rim. Watch her tongue flick out to catch a drop.
Fuck.
“You gonna keep staring,” she says lightly, “or do you wanna play?”
“Play what? You got a game in that bag of yours?”
“You know I do.” She reaches into her stupid sequined purse and pulls out… a sprig of mistletoe tied to a spinner made from a wine bottle.
I blink.
“Mistletoe roulette,” she says, like it’s normal.
“What the hell is that?”
“Like spin the bottle. But whoever it lands on has to kiss the other. Or answer a truth.”
“That’s not how spin the bottle works.”
She spins it before I can argue more.
The mistletoe spins wildly on the wood floor before slowing… and stopping on me.
I raise a brow. “Well, go on then. Ask your question.”
“Truth or kiss?”
“Kiss isn’t a punishment.”
She scoots closer. “Then maybe I should choose dare next time.”
Her tone is pure sin.
But I don’t move when she leans in, not until her lips are so close I can feel her breath. Smells like cinnamon and cocoa. Dangerous.
Then—she pulls back, smirking. “Truth. What’s the dirtiest thought you’ve had about me since I got here?”
I stare at her.
She lifts her glass. “Tick-tock.”
“I’m debating whether to answer,” I mutter.
“You agreed to play.”
“I never did.”
“Coward.”
“Brat.”
I drain my whiskey.
Then lean forward, low and steady. “You sure you wanna know?”
Her eyes widen, just a little.
I lean in closer. Our noses nearly touch. “I thought about bending you over the counter that first night. When you stormed in here all lips and attitude. Wanted to hear you moan while you cursed me out.”
Her breath hitches.
And for a second, the air snaps like a livewire between us.
But she blinks and then—spins the mistletoe again.
This time it lands between us.
She grins. “Tie. That means dare.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.” She tosses off her cardigan. “Strip dare. House rule.”
“Getting bold, sunshine.”
“You’re the one with the counter fantasy.”
“True.”
She gives me a look. “Dare me.”
I look at her slowly, letting the firelight flick across every curve. The room gets hotter. Or maybe I do.
“Take off your shirt.”
She peels it off without hesitation. Red lace bra. Snowflake charm at the center. Designed to kill men like me.
Her nipples pebble in the firelight.
“Cold in here?” I ask.
“Please. You’ve been staring like that fire’s not even lit.”
I chuckle darkly and spin the mistletoe again.
It lands on her.
“Truth or dare?” she asks, voice like velvet.
“Dare.”
Her smile turns wicked. “Take off your shirt.”
I tug it over my head. She bites her lip.
“You’re so…built,” she mutters.
“Didn’t expect you to notice.”
“Oh, I noticed.”
Silence hums between us, stretching and twisting. I want to pull her into my lap. Want to press her to the floor and kiss her until she forgets why she came here in the first place.
She spins the bottle again.
“Truth or dare?” she whispers when it lands on me.
“Truth.”
She leans in. “What’s stopping you from kissing me?”
I don’t answer right away.
Because the truth is simple: nothing. Nothing but every damn warning bell in my head that says if I start, I won’t stop.
But I say, “Because I like the way you look at me when you’re still wondering if I will.”
Her lips part.
And this time, she doesn’t move.
I do.
I brush her hair from her face. Let my thumb linger at her cheekbone. Her breath shudders.
I dip my head—slow, torturous—until our lips are almost touching.
Then stop.
She groans.
“You’re an asshole.”
“I know.”
“Do it.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I kiss you now, Noel…” I meet her eyes, “I’m not pulling back.”
She swallows.
I can feel her heartbeat.
“We’ve got days stuck in this cabin,” I say. “And I want you begging by the end of them.”
She narrows her eyes. “You think you’re that good?”
“I know I am.”
She smirks, tossing her bra at me before reaching for the blanket and pulling it around herself.
“Then earn it, mountain man.”
I growl. Low. Dangerous.
And walk straight to the kitchen before I forget how to think.
She laughs softly behind me.
This game’s far from over.
And I’m not planning on losing.