Chapter Three #2
I hadn't expected such raw honesty. It struck me that perhaps isolation hadn't been his first choice, but his response to loss.
"What about family?" he asked, changing the subject. "They know you're hiding from the law?"
"I'm not hiding from the law," I corrected.
"I'm avoiding the clutches of a corrupt politician.
And no. My parents live in Arizona. Snowbirds who made it permanent.
They think I'm having a lovely Christmas season.
" I twisted the shot glass between my fingers.
"What's the deal with you and Christmas?
And don't drink this time. I'm genuinely curious. "
He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the fire. Just when I thought he would drink after all, he spoke.
"Last deployment. We were supposed to be home in time. Plans changed." His voice was even, but there was something beneath it, something he was holding back. "When I got out, I just... stopped celebrating. Didn't see the point."
The weight of unspoken history hung in his words. I wanted to ask more but sensed he'd already shared more than he usually did.
"Well," I said softly, "thank you for letting me put up the decor. That was nice of you."
He nodded once, then gestured to my shot glass. "Your question."
"What about you?" he asked, his voice lower now, less guarded. "What made you so celebration-obsessed?"
I traced the rim of my shot glass, memories flooding me more than the schnapps.
"My grandma. She made every Christmas magical, even when money was tight.
She'd transform our tiny apartment into the North Pole with nothing but thrift store garlands and popcorn on string.
" I smiled, remembering. "When she died, I promised myself I'd keep that magic alive.
It's why I started my event company—to give other people what she gave me. "
Pax nodded, something shifting in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
The liquor was beginning to work its magic, creating a pleasant heat that had nothing to do with the fire. I relaxed back on my elbows, feeling my earlier tension about Nolan's visit begin to dissolve.
"Okay, easy one. What movies did you download on that laptop I saw? And please tell me there's at least one Christmas movie."
He let out a sound that might have been a laugh. "You're obsessed."
"With Christmas? Ab-snow-lutely."
He shook his head. "There might be one or two."
I sat up straight. "Really? Which ones? Please say Die Hard."
"That’s not a Christmas movie.
I gasped in mock horror. "Of course it is! Christmas party, Christmas music, Christmas miracle of John McClane saving the day."
"If you say so."
"We need to check. Where's your computer?"
He gave me a bemused look. "You want to watch movies now? In a power outage?"
"Laptops have batteries," I pointed out. "And it sounds like you are in desperate need of film education."
To my surprise, he actually got up and retrieved his computer from his desk. The battery indicator showed nearly full charge when he opened it.
"What other classics do you have?" I asked, scooting closer to see the screen, bringing the bottle of schnapps with me.
"Does It's a Wonderful Life count?" he asked.
"The most Christmassy of Christmas classics!" I exclaimed. "I'm shocked you have it."
"It was Rudy's doing," he admitted. "He sends me movies sometimes. Says I need 'cultural maintenance.'"
I laughed. "I like your brother more and more."
We settled back against the couch, the laptop balanced between us, as the movie began to play. The logs in the hearth crackled, sending shadows dancing across the walls, and outside the tempest raged, but in our little bubble of warmth, none of that seemed to matter.
As George Bailey's story unfolded, I found myself watching Pax more than the movie.
His stoic expression betrayed him in micro-expressions—a tiny muscle jump in his jaw during the pharmacy scene, the barely-there crinkle at the corner of his eyes when Mr. Gower embraced George.
Each reaction was like catching a glimpse of someone through a cracked door—gone almost before I could register it.
"You've seen this before," I observed during a quiet moment in the film.
"Once or twice," he admitted. "As a kid."
When Clarence showed George the world without him, I couldn't help but comment, "See? Everyone matters. Even grumpy mountain men."
He snorted. "I think you've had enough alcohol."
I realized we'd been steadily sipping throughout the movie.
The bottle was now a third empty, and my limbs had gone deliciously heavy, my thoughts softening like cookie dough left in the sun.
Every worry about Nolan had evaporated like snowflakes on warm skin, replaced by the gentle buzz of gingerbread schnapps and the fire's soothing radiance.
"Never enough cheer," I countered, my words only slightly slurred. "Speaking of which, we need a carol break."
I paused the film, ignoring his protest.
"Come on. One song. It's part of the full experience."
"I don't sing," he said flatly.
"Everyone sings! It's Christmas!"
"You seem to think saying 'it's Christmas' is a magical argument winner."
"Isn't it?" I grinned, then began to softly sing, "Silent night, holy night..."
Pax remained resolutely silent.
"All is calm, all is bright..."
Nothing.
I poked his arm. "Come on. You must know this one."
He sighed deeply, then muttered something barely audible.
"What was that?"
"Round yon virgin, mother and child," he said, slightly louder, not singing so much as speaking rhythmically.
"Holy infant so tender and mild," I continued, delighted.
"Sleep in heavenly peace," he finished, then gave me a look. "Happy?"
"Ecstatic," I beamed. "You do know Christmas carols!"
"Basic cultural knowledge."
"Next, we're trying 'Jingle Bells.'"
"Absolutely not."
I laughed, and the sound seemed to fill the space between us, bright and unexpected in the firelit cabin. His eyes met mine, and something stirred there—a connection that existed separate from the spiced liquor or gentle ambience.
We turned back to the movie, but I was hyperaware of him beside me—the solid presence of his shoulder near mine, the faint scent of pine and woodsmoke that clung to him like a second skin.
The laptop balanced precariously between us, and as we shifted to get more comfortable, our arms brushed. Neither of us pulled away.
By the time George Bailey was running through Bedford Falls shouting "Merry Christmas," my eyelids were growing heavy. The combination of stress, relief, spirits, and the hypnotic flickering of the fire was taking its toll. I fought to keep my eyes open, not wanting the evening to end.
"You're falling asleep," Pax observed, his voice low.
"Am not," I protested, even as I failed to stifle a yawn.
"Stubborn," he muttered, but I caught the note of amusement.
The final scenes played out, and as the townspeople gathered around the Bailey piano singing "Auld Lang Syne," I found myself humming along, my eyelids surrendering to gravity like snowflakes drifting down until my head somehow came to rest against Pax's shoulder.
He stiffened for a heartbeat, then, to my surprise, relaxed. I should have moved, I knew that, but he was warm and solid, and I was so very tired...
I drifted off to the sound of bells ringing and angels getting their wings.
When I woke, the movie had ended, the computer screen dark.
The fire had burned lower, and I was still leaning against Pax's shoulder, but somehow during my sleep his arm had come around me, holding me against his side.
My head fit perfectly in the hollow beneath his collarbone, and I could hear the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my ear.
I froze in place, suspended in the sweet space between dreaming and waking, not wanting to break whatever spell had allowed this moment to happen.
Pax Forrester, the man who didn't do Christmas or drinking games or presumably human contact, had his arm around me, and was possibly asleep himself, his breathing deep and even.
Then he shifted slightly, and I knew he was awake.
"Sorry," I murmured, beginning to pull away.
His arm tightened almost imperceptibly. "It's fine."
I raised my face to his, intending to make some joke about using mountain men as pillows, but the words died in my throat. His face was so close to mine, those blue eyes dark and intense. His gaze revealed an expression I hadn't seen before—something unguarded, almost vulnerable.
My gaze dropped to his mouth—that serious, rarely-smiling mouth that I suddenly couldn't stop thinking about.
When I forced myself to look up again, the urgency in those blue depths stole my breath.
He leaned forward, barely an inch, and my body responded before my brain could intervene, swaying toward him like a compass finding north.
Our breath tangled, heated and hesitant all at once.
Then a log in the fireplace collapsed with a shower of sparks, breaking the moment. We both jerked back.
Pax cleared his throat, his arm slipping from around my shoulders. "It's late."
I blinked, the spell broken. I was dodging tyranny, sheltering with a virtual stranger during a blizzard, and nearly kissing said stranger after too much schnapps and sentimentality. Talk about getting caught under the mistletoe with no escape clause. What was I thinking?
"Right," I said, forcing brightness into my voice. "And I've kept you up with my Christmas indoctrination."
A shadow of something—regret? relief?—crossed his face. "You should take the bed upstairs. I'll sleep down here."
"Oh, no, I couldn't—"
"Pepper." His voice was firm. "Take the bed. I've slept in worse places than my own couch."
I hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you. For the movies. And, um, being a good pillow."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Good night, Pepper."
"Good night, Paxton."
I gathered myself and climbed the stairs to the loft, acutely aware of his eyes following me.
The bed was huge, a king-size with a thick comforter that looked like heaven.
Still, as I slipped beneath the covers, all I could think about was the unexpected spark when he held me, and how close we'd come to crossing a line that couldn't be uncrossed.
Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows. Inside, I stared up at the dark ceiling, knowing that just below me, Pax was probably doing the same thing.
Baby, it was cold outside—but things between us were heating up in a way neither of us had anticipated.