Chapter Three
“Baby, It's Cold Outside”
Pepper
Nothing calms nerves like creaming butter and sugar. There's something soothing about the rhythm of it—the transformation of separate ingredients into something cohesive, predictable. Unlike, say, corrupt mayors with guns showing up at your temporary shelter during a snowstorm.
I'd been beating the same cookie dough for at least three minutes longer than necessary, my mind replaying Nolan's visit from earlier that day.
The memory of his voice, that fake politician charm dropping away when Pax stood up to him, sent another surge of adrenaline through me.
I attacked the dough with renewed vigor.
"I think it's surrendered," Pax said from the doorway of the kitchen.
I startled, wooden spoon freezing mid-stir. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Sorry," I said, glancing down at the thoroughly mixed dough. "I stress-bake."
The scent of ginger and cloves had already transformed the kitchen into a pocket-sized version of my childhood home at Christmas—warm, inviting, and safe. The steady rhythm of mixing, rolling, cutting, and baking had always been my refuge from chaos.
"I noticed." His eyes swept over the kitchen counter, which I'd completely overtaken. Again. Flour dusted every surface, cookie cutters in various festive shapes lined up like toy soldiers, and two trays of gingerbread men already cooled on the rack. "You found my baking supplies."
"You're surprisingly well-stocked for someone who claims to hate the holidays."
He shrugged. "I like to cook."
"There's a difference between cooking and having specialty cookie cutters," I pointed out, holding up a perfectly shaped reindeer.
"Previous owners," he said, though something in his eyes flickered away when he said it.
I decided not to push. "Well, their loss is our gain. Hope you don't mind me raiding your pantry. After today's close call, I needed to do something with my hands."
"Better than pacing." He moved into the kitchen and peered at the cooling rack. "What kind?"
"Gingerbread. It felt right." I tilted my face toward his, a mischievous idea forming. "Want to try one? Or do you 'not do' Christmas cookies too?"
He scowled. "I never said I don't eat holiday food."
"Just clarifying your yuletide boundaries." I selected a gingerbread man, decorated with little buttons made of white icing, and held it up. "Here. Quality control."
He hesitated, then took the cookie, examining it like it might be booby-trapped. After a moment, he took a bite.
I watched his reaction, waiting. The recipe was my grandmother's—extra ginger, a hint of black pepper for warmth, and molasses for depth.
His eyes widened slightly as he chewed.
"Good?" I asked innocently.
He nodded once, then devoured the rest in two bites.
"Awful, I know. Totally tasteless, not worth eating another—" I broke off, laughing, as he reached for a second cookie. "I knew it! Your Grinchy act doesn't extend to baked goods."
"This proves nothing," he grumbled, though his mouth quirked at the corner—that almost-smile I'd come to recognize as Pax's version of amusement.
The lights flickered, once, twice, then stabilized. We both glanced up.
"Storm's getting worse," he said, crossing to the window. The snow whipped sideways in the beam of the exterior light, coming down so heavily that the forest beyond was just a dim shadow. "Power might go soon."
As if on cue, the lights flickered again, longer this time, before steadying.
"What happens if we lose power?" I asked, the realization hitting me of how isolated we were in this remote cabin.
"Generator should kick in for essentials. Heat, some lights. If that fails, we've got the fireplace." He turned back to me. "I've got supplies. We'll be fine."
"Ever the Boy Scout."
"Marine," he corrected automatically, and I couldn't help but grin at having baited him so easily.
"Of course. Marines are much tougher, I'm sure." I returned to forming my cookie dough into festive shapes. "So what does a tough Marine drink when stranded in a blizzard with an elf on the run?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because," I said, sliding the cookie sheet into the oven, "I found something interesting while searching for vanilla." I reached up to the cabinet above the fridge and pulled out a bottle of amber liquid. "Gingerbread schnapps. Also suspiciously Christmassy for a holiday-hater."
Pax actually looked embarrassed. "It was a gift."
"From...?"
"My brother."
"The journalist? Rudy?" I examined the bottle. "Well, it seems like the perfect night to break it in. Arctic squall outside, fire inside, life-threatening situations successfully navigated..."
The lights flickered again, longer this time, before finally dying completely.
We stood in sudden darkness, the only illumination coming from the oven's control panel and the faint glow of the fireplace from the living room.
"You were saying about successfully navigating?" Pax's voice came through the darkness, dry as tinder.
I laughed, then jumped at a loud mechanical clunking from outside. "What's that?"
"Generator trying to start." He navigated through the darkness with surprising ease, opening a drawer and pulling out a flashlight. Its beam cut through the kitchen. "Come on. Let's get the fire built up while we wait."
I followed him to the living room, bringing the schnapps and two shot glasses I'd found in the cabinet.
Might as well make the best of it. The hearth cast an amber radiance throughout the room, highlighting the open staircase to his loft bedroom and the seasonal decorations I'd hung earlier, now dormant.
Pax knelt before the fireplace, stacking logs with the quick, deliberate movements of someone who'd built hundreds of fires.
I couldn't help admiring the way his shoulders moved beneath his henley as he stoked the flames.
The fire illuminated his profile—the strong line of his jaw beneath his beard, the intensity in his eyes.
My mouth went suddenly dry, and I averted my gaze.
"Generator's not kicking in," he said after a moment, straightening up. "Probably ice in the line. I'll need to check it in the morning."
"So we're going full pioneer tonight?" I asked, settling on the thick rug before the hearth. The heat felt wonderful after the rapidly cooling kitchen.
"There are worse things." He sat beside me, leaving a careful distance between us. "Power usually comes back in a few hours."
I held up the bottle. "Sounds like we need a drinking game to pass the time."
He eyed the schnapps skeptically. "I don't do games."
"Right—you don't do celebrations, don't do games." I unscrewed the cap, breathing in the sweet, spicy aroma. "Is there anything fun you do do, Pax Forrester?"
"Security consulting," he offered with a perfectly straight face.
I snorted. "Wild times." I poured two shots, the liquid glinting amber in the firelight. "Come on. Think of it as... tactical information exchange."
That got a tiny twitch of his lips. "Tactical information exchange."
"Exactly." I handed him a shot glass. "Here's how it works. Truth or shot. I ask a question, you either answer honestly or drink. Then you ask me. Simple."
He rolled the small glass between his fingers, considering. "What kind of questions?"
"Nothing classified or traumatic," I promised.
"Besides, I'm trying to spread some holiday cheer, not ruin the spirit of Christmas.
" I grinned at my own pun, which earned me a blank stare.
"Get it? Spirit? Like alcohol?" His expression didn't change.
"Tough crowd. Don't worry, I've got a sleigh-load more where that came from. "
"Is backing out an option?" he asked, but there was no heat in it.
"Nope. You're snowed in with Santa’s helper. Resistance is futile." I wiggled my eyebrows. "So... getting to know you questions. Considering we're trapped together for the foreseeable future."
He seemed to deliberate for a moment, then nodded once. "Fine."
"Excellent!" I grinned. "I'll start easy. What's your full name?"
"Paxton James Forrester."
"Paxton," I repeated, testing the name. It suited him somehow—solid, a little old-fashioned. "Your turn."
He thought for a moment. "What's your actual job? Besides... imp."
I laughed. "Event planning and management. I have my own small company, but I took the North Pole Village contract because Christmas events are my specialty. Now, what did you do before becoming a mountain hermit?"
He hesitated, then lifted the shot glass and downed it in one swallow.
"Hey! That was an easy one!" I protested.
"You said drink or answer. I chose drink." He refilled his glass. "How did you end up engaged to the mayor?"
My turn to hesitate. "That's a long story."
"We've got time." The firelight caught in his eyes, making the blue gleam.
I sighed. "We met when I first moved to Evergreen Falls three years ago.
I was hired to plan the town's sesquicentennial celebration, and he was the up-and-coming city councilman assigned to work with me.
He was charming, ambitious, attentive. We dated for six months before he proposed.
" I shrugged, trying to make it casual. "Classic whirlwind romance, until I found him with his campaign manager a year later. "
Pax's expression darkened. "On the couch in his office," I added. "Very cliché."
"He's an idiot," Pax said, so matter-of-factly that it startled a laugh out of me.
"Why, Mr. Forrester, was that almost a compliment?"
He cleared his throat. "Statement of fact."
"Mmhmm." I took a small sip of my schnapps—it was delicious, warming me from the inside with notes of spice. "My turn. What do you miss most about the Marines?"
He stared down at his tumbler, and for a moment I thought he'd drink again. But then he said quietly, "The certainty. Knowing your job, your place. The people you could count on."