Chapter 8 Nash
Nash
The snow’s up to my damn knees.
I stomp the slush off my boots and haul in the wood, dumping it next to the stove just as Noel prances into the room like the storm is her stage.
She’s in ridiculous Christmas leggings. Poinsetta red with little white snowflakes. Her sweater says JINGLE THIS across her chest, and I’m not a religious man, but I might’ve just been baptized in temptation.
She’s on the phone, pacing, pouting, biting her bottom lip like the Grinch just stole her Christmas tree.
“Wait—what do you mean snowed in until Friday?” she huffs. “No, you cannot do a remote interview from the Brew! This entire challenge is dependent on the transformation of the Hollis cabin—yeah, Hollis, the shirtless grump with the beard.”
She glances at me and rolls her eyes. I raise a brow. Shirtless grump?
Fair.
The second she hangs up, she groans and flops onto the sofa like someone just told her Mariah Carey lost her voice.
“They’re stuck in town,” she groans. “Roads are snowed in until the county plows through Devil’s Pass.”
“So you're stuck. With me.”
“Unfortunately.”
I set a fresh log on the fire. “Could be worse.”
She squints. “How?”
“You could be stuck with someone who likes your sequin pillows.”
She gasps, one hand to her chest. “Blasphemy. Those are vintage. They sparkle. Like joy.”
“They shed like glitter bombs in a strip club.”
Her eyes narrow. “If you weren’t so ruggedly hot when you’re insulting me, I’d throw one at your head.”
“Flattery won’t win you this battle, tinsel girl.”
She perks up like a Christmas elf on espresso. “Battle?”
I grunt.
She’s already halfway to the kitchen, pulling open her decorating bins with manic energy. “Decorating contest. You versus me. One hour. One area. And I’ll even let you pick your weapons, oh Great and Powerful Grump.”
“Winner gets what?”
She stops, tapping her chin. “Hmm… loser does dishes for the next two days.”
My lip twitches. “You’re on.”
She smirks. “Great. You take the porch. I’ll take the fireplace.”
Outside?
Perfect.
I’ve got a plan already.
She cranks up a tinny Christmas playlist on her phone—Run Run Rudolph blaring like this is some kind of festive war zone—and we both dive in.
She’s pulling out tinsel like it’s a tactical assault. I grab my axe and head for the shed.
***
Forty-five minutes later, I’m shirtless, stringing lights up the porch post with one hand and holding a freshly cut pine bough in my other. Snowflakes stick to my skin. My breath fogs in the freezing air.
But I don’t feel a damn thing.
Not when she’s watching me like that.
She’s pressed up against the frosted window inside, hands cupped around her face like a goddamn Christmas voyeur. Her lips part. Her gaze tracks the line of my shoulders, down my back, and lingers—lingers—at the waistband of my jeans.
I look up and smirk.
She yelps and disappears like a cartoon villain caught mid-peep.
I finish the last nail and plug in the lights.
Boom. Warm, golden glow. Even I have to admit—it looks pretty damn magical.
By the time I stomp back inside, Noel’s standing by the fire, arms crossed, face flushed.
“Not fair,” she says.
“What isn’t?”
“Using your abs to hypnotize the judges.”
“Didn’t realize this was a pageant.”
She stalks over, chin lifted. “You knew I was watching.”
“Did I?”
“You flexed.”
I lean in, drop my voice. “Sweetheart, I always flex around you.”
She gulps.
Then pokes me in the chest. “You win. Fine. But only because I got distracted and burned my garland.”
I glance at the fireplace. A half-melted strand of red beads curls like sad tinsel snakes.
“Tragic,” I murmur. “But points for effort.”
She shoves me lightly. “I demand a rematch.”
“You want me shirtless again?”
She flushes, eyes darting. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She crosses her arms. “You’re a menace.”
“You’re chaos wrapped in sequins.”
We stare at each other. Neither one of us blinking. The fire crackles. The music switches to something slow, sultry.
Her gaze drops to my chest. Lingers. Then rises again, soft and sharp at once.
“I’m still not sleeping with you,” she says, voice quiet.
I grin. “Didn’t ask.”
“But you’re thinking about it.”
“Always.”
She groans, spins around, and throws a faux snow-dusted pillow at me. I catch it mid-air.
“Careful,” I say, tossing it back. “You’re dangerously close to flirting.”
Her laugh is breathy. “Shut up, Hollis.”
But her smile says otherwise.
And even as the storm traps us here a little longer… it’s not the snow keeping me frozen in place.
It’s her.
Standing there.
In my cabin.
Like she belongs.