Chapter 2
Tripp
I should be startled to find a woman passed out on my couch, but the snow-covered Jeep in my driveway was a dead giveaway.
I don’t know why Harley Greer is inside my cabin, but I’m suddenly wishing the impending storm was too weak to have ended my latest hunting excursion early.
I simply couldn’t justify keeping a father and son stranded on Christmas Eve.
The dad was clear his wife would kill us all if they didn’t make it home for Christmas morning—deer or no deer—so I called it early.
Would I have found Harley comfortably wrapped up in my plaid patterned throw blanket, curled up on my sectional if I’d gambled with the storm a little longer?
Probably not.
Well…maybe not.
I’ve gone to great lengths to avoid my sister’s best friend, hoping that time and distance would dull the burning attraction I feel for her.
When I moved home to Caribou Creek last spring, Harley wasn’t in town yet. I’d never met her or had any idea the fucking hold she’d have on me when I did. By the time she showed up, I’d already bought a remote cabin a few miles outside of the city limits and decided to settle in my hometown.
I hoped she’d eventually get tired of Alaska and move back to wherever she came from. But instead, she announced at the Thanksgiving dinner my sister hosted that she rented a tiny cabin down the block from Mandi—for the next two years.
She has to go.
“Harley?” I call out, my voice purposely loud and deep to wake her.
She screams, jumping up from my couch and landing in a fight-ready position.
The red and black plaid blanket is still tangled around her waist, failing to cover the skin-tight tank top that’s pulled so far down the red lace of her bra is showing.
A flannel button up I’m almost certain is mine hangs open and off one shoulder, shiny with silvery strands.
Fuck me.
She’s so fucking adorable I almost forget to be pissed off about the intrusion. My twitching dick thinks I should let the whole breaking and entering thing go.
“What are you doing here?” she squeaks, tugging the blanket free and tossing it onto the couch, revealing a skin-tight pair of black leggings that accentuate her long, curvy legs. Legs I’ve longed to run my palms up and down more times than I care to admit.
“I live here.”
“Oh, right.”
“The better question is what are you doing here? In my cabin?” The moment the question leaves my lips, I notice a twinkle overhead and find my answer.
I lift my gaze to the loft, horrified to find shiny, sparkling red, green, and gold garland wrapped around the railing. It reminds me of an anaconda coiled around a tree branch, if that snake were made of shiny metallic tinsel. “What the fuck—”
“Before you get mad, Mandi sent me.”
My gaze travels the span of my cabin, and my stomach drops.
Holiday decorations are everywhere, in every conceivable place and on every surface.
Like a fucking elf vomited Christmas cheer all over my cabin.
There’s a giant, fully-decorated tree blocking the living room window, some type of Santa’s village on my fireplace mantel, and oversized snowman holding a holiday wreath stationed next to the kitchen island.
“Take it down.”
“Nope, not happening,” she says, tugging off my flannel shirt. I catch another glimpse of that red lace bra before she covers it with a Caribou Creek Brewery hoodie. My dick twitches again, the fucker.
“What do you mean?”
“If you want to undo all this and hurt Mandi’s feelings, be my guest. But I want no part in crushing her too-big, Christmasy heart.”
“You can’t just leave all this here,” I protest.
“Oh, I can,” she says, slipping on a thick, puffy coat and zipping it up as she rushes toward the front door. “I work for her, not you.”
“Harley, wait.”
She stops and turns so quickly I nearly plow into her. I catch my palms on either side of the doorjamb, and I’m instantly struck by her flowery, cinnamon scent. One that’s no doubt wrapped up in my favorite blanket.
“There’s nothing you can say to convince me to undo this,” she says when I fail to speak up, her hand firmly on the doorknob. Her gaze quickly flicks to my lips, then away again. “Or do.”
The temptation to press her up against the door and devour that pretty mouth is alarmingly strong. I’ve fantasized about it enough times. Would flavor would I taste? Hot cocoa and peppermint, perhaps? Or is she more of an eggnog and bourbon kind of woman?
“See you at breakfast tomorrow,” she says, twisting the doorknob and spilling out onto the snow-covered porch before I can do anything as reckless as follow through with that fantasy kiss.
“Tell Mandi I’ll be getting even with her for this,” I call after her, forcing myself to wait in the open doorway despite the urge to help her clear the snow from her Jeep.
“Tell her yourself,” she says, pulling open her door. “I’m no longer in the middle.”
She pulls her door shut, the powdery snow on the driver’s side of her vehicle falling in a quick whoosh. But when she cranks the ignition, nothing happens.
Fuck.
She didn’t plug in her vehicle, and now the battery is frozen.
Harley Greer isn’t going anywhere.