Chapter 11
Noel
The real mistletoe hangs crooked above the cabin door like it knows it’s part of some fate-spun conspiracy. I swear I didn’t hang it. At least, not this one. This is Nash’s doing.
The man who told me to take my fairy lights and shove them now struts around his own front porch with a sprig of parasitic greenery tacked up like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I stand there, cocoa in hand, peacoat unbuttoned and snowflakes catching in my lashes, waiting for him to say something. Or move. Or look at me like he did last night—like I was the storm outside and he couldn’t wait to get swept up in me.
“You always hover this long in doorways?” he finally mutters, voice low, the gravel in it warmer than the cocoa in my hands.
I raise a brow. “Only when I’m deciding whether to cross a line.”
“You’re halfway through the door. You already crossed it.”
God. His voice should be illegal. Like limes and tequila, it lingers too long and goes straight to my head.
“I thought you were allergic to mistletoe.” I gesture up, pretending my heart isn’t doing somersaults in my chest.
He shrugs, stepping closer. He smells like cedar and smoke and the kind of man you want to ruin your plans. “Figured it was only fair.”
I don’t move. I can’t. Not with him in front of me like this. All flannel and feral heat. His gaze flicks from my eyes to my lips, slow and unapologetic. It’s not just attraction in his stare—it’s curiosity. Challenge.
I wet my lips. Mistake. His jaw tightens.
“Mistletoe rules are pretty clear, you know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He lifts a brow. “You want rules now?”
My pulse slams in my throat. “You going to kiss me or glare at me until I melt?”
He smirks. “Thought you liked your men grumpy.”
“And shirtless,” I add. “But that’s negotiable.”
He moves closer—just a breath. Just enough that I can see the flecks of amber in his irises, the scratch of beard shadow across his cheek. His gaze holds mine, heavy and patient, as if he's giving me time to run. Or lean in.
The snow starts falling harder, fat flakes catching in his hair, clinging to his flannel collar.
“You should’ve told me you were coming,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.
“I tried. You don’t answer your phone. Anyway, you would’ve told me not to.”
“Damn right I would’ve.”
“And yet…” I tip my chin up, bold even though my knees are made of jelly. “Here you are. Hanging mistletoe. Keeping me warm. Decorating cookies like it’s your calling.”
“Don’t forget saving you from the Phantom River ice concert.”
“That too.” I smirk. “You’re practically a Christmas miracle, Hollis.”
He exhales a quiet laugh. “You make everything chaos.”
“And you make everything… impossible not to want.”
That does it. His eyes flash, and suddenly, the air between us isn’t air anymore. It’s heat and tension and the invisible thread that’s been tightening between us since I first walked into his cabin and saw him in nothing but a towel.
His hand comes up, brushes snow from my cheek. Rough fingers. Gentle touch.
I lean into it before I realize I’m doing it.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
I swallow. “Say what?”
“That you want this.”
I blink up at him, vulnerable and reckless and more exposed than I’ve ever been in my life. “I want this.”
That’s all it takes.
His mouth crashes onto mine, and it’s not sweet. It’s not polite. It’s pent-up and starved and filled with weeks’ worth of biting sarcasm and almost-touches and long looks across the firelight.
His hands are in my hair, mine fisted in his flannel. He presses me back against the door, one knee slipping between mine like he needs to claim every part of me at once.
I moan against his lips, and he answers it with a growl low in his chest, one that sounds suspiciously like mine now.
The kiss deepens. Devours.
He kisses like a man who’s gone without too long. Like I’m the first color in his grayscale world.
And I kiss him back like I might not get the chance again.
Then—
Knock knock knock.
The banging on the door jerks us apart like teenagers caught behind the gym.
Nash swears, panting, forehead resting against mine. “If that’s your camera crew, I’m chucking their equipment into the river.”
I bite back a laugh, breathless and trembling. “Maybe it’s Santa. You’ve definitely been naughty.”
He pulls back, eyes blazing. “Only for you.”
Another knock. Louder this time.
I groan and slide out from beneath him, cheeks flushed, mouth still tingling. I throw open the door with the fury of a woman cockblocked by fate—and find an elderly woman holding a box of cookies and a thermos.
“Well, bless,” she says. “You must be Noel.”
I blink. “Um. Yes?”
“I’m Miriam. Nash’s neighbor. Saw the lights on, figured you two could use some Christmas cheer. And cocoa with a little somethin’ extra.”
I glance at Nash, who looks like he’d rather be struck by lightning than be part of this conversation.
Still, he steps forward, takes the box from her, nods gruffly. “Thanks, Miriam.”
She beams at me. “He’s a good man. Just needs a little… softening.”
“Oh, I plan to,” I say before I can stop myself.
Nash groans. Miriam cackles.
And just like that, the moment’s gone—but the fire between us? That’s not going out anytime soon.