Chapter 10 Playing Safe
PLAYING SAFE
LILAH
I’d spent years telling myself one story about my ruined wedding day: Brad was a cheating bastard, Holden was his smooth accomplice, and I played the fool in white.
Now I knew—Brad was still a cheating bastard.
But Holden might not have been the villain I’d made him out to be. Which was frankly very inconvenient, being stuck here in a storm with the gorgeous snowboarding-playboy-turned-mountain-man-lodge-owner today.
I labored busily through my frustrations. I wiped down the prep counters for the third time, even though they already gleamed. The smells of dinner and pies still hung in the air—as did Holden’s cologne. I turned the fans on to blow it all out, as if that’d prevent me from thinking about him.
I’d cooled the soup. Wrapped the bread. Labeled everything. Checked the walk-in cooler temp. Double-checked the freezers. Triple-prayed the generator would hold steady overnight. My eyes toured the kitchen, running out of excuses to hide here.
I put the votives back into a drawer, dwelling on the way Holden’s eyes had gone earnest when he explained everything. He’d appeared genuinely wrecked when he wished he’d done better by me. Which made him either a good actor or… But I chose to believe him.
I braced my palms on the counter. For so long, it’d been simpler to tuck him into the same mental box as Brad, labeled Men Who Betray. I closed the lid on that chapter of my life, locked it tight. Done.
But tonight, hearing Holden admit how he’d ripped into Brad after I ran away, and how he’d cut his friend out of his life—it tore that box wide open faster than a preschooler with a Christmas present. I’d been wrong about Holden all along.
My fingertips pressed my lips where I could still feel the ghost of his almost-kiss.
My body tingled where his shoulder had brushed mine while we washed dishes side by side.
My breath had caught. So had his. He’d leaned in, had done all the right things to kick-start my heart, and then I’d bolted like a coward when his phone rang.
Always playing it safe, that was me.
The clock on the wall chimed midnight. No longer Christmas Eve. But Christmas. I chuckled. Maybe Santa brought me gifts tonight after all, like the chance to lay a piece of my past to rest, and the chance to sleep in the same room with Holden. Maybe more than sleep?
I snorted. “Right. Because sex with my boss is exactly what I need.” I yanked off my apron and tossed it into the hamper, ignoring the part of my body that screamed You do need sex, honey. Lighten up and live a little.
I finally forced myself out of my sanctuary and crept past the lobby to the library. When I pushed open the door, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but heat wrapped around me like a hug, inviting me inside.
Holden had built a Christmas cocoon, complete with twinkle lights across the ceiling, and a small tree I recognized as one from the dining room. The cozy atmosphere was unexpected, like I had walked into a secret cave of warmth in the middle of a frozen mountain.
The fireplace crackled gently, flames licking at logs that glowed orange and gold. Two cots sat near the hearth, about five feet apart, each layered like miniature hotel beds with cushioned bases, crisp sheets, fluffy pillows, and duvets.
He occupied one cot, sleeping. On the empty cot for me, extra blankets lay folded neatly at the foot, along with a pair of plush hotel slippers and a thick robe, waiting for me to jump into this Christmas fantasy world he’d built.
I strode to the tree, giving it a once-over. The ornaments appeared familiar. Getting a closer look, I recognized the jelly and peanut butter labels from the jars he’d used in the PB heat gathered under my collar. His head turned a fraction, like his internal radar had picked up my presence. The urge to reach out, to warm my cold hands on his skin, hit so hard they gathered the hem of my chef’s coat instead.
I backed away quietly. I toed off my boots, set them beside the other cot, and hid under my blankets like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew.
A moment later, I heard him stir. Springs creaked. A low, sleepy groan escaped him, followed by the soft pad of his bare feet on the rug.
I lay on my side, pretending to be asleep, complete with a tiny snore. From what I could tell, he moved to the fireplace, feeding another log into the flame.
Don’t look. I peeked anyway.
His broad, muscular back thinned to a trim waist, the line of his spine elegantly cut. My gaze admired and drifted lower, down his ass in gray sweat shorts, further down his thick thighs, stopping at the scars by his knee. The kind you only got from multiple surgeries and an ego wrenching fall.
The way the accident had ruined his shot at Olympic gold could have ruined anyone for life.
But he wasn’t just some rich snowboarder who’d bought a mountain because he was bored.
He was a man who’d lost something huge, who people counted out, but he rebuilt himself anyway, and poured that second chance into this place.
Even though he was a walking accident sometimes, his heart was here. I could feel it in every square inch.
He adjusted the log, coaxing the flames higher, then stood. I shut my eyes quickly and slowed my breathing.
His steps came closer. The faint scent of his bergamot-wood cologne ghosted in the air. He stood there long enough that I desired another peek. My heart thumped wildly.
“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered. “Brad didn’t deserve you. If only I’d gotten to you first in Ibiza.”
The words slammed into me, every muscle tightening from the shock of it. He’d thought that? After all this time?
I let out the smallest moan, with a pretend stir, a stretch of my limbs. He didn’t shift away. I opened my eyes—and he was right there, gazing down at me, expression open, unguarded in a way he never let me see when I was sniping at him all day.
“Hey, Frosty. I thought you’d work all night just to avoid me.”
I swallowed, my throat a little thick. “No. I worked until I was exhausted, though. So if you don’t mind…”
“Right.” He retreated to his own cot, holding up both hands, his flirty, self-protective grin flashing. “I’ll shut up and let you sleep.”
Silence draped over us, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional groan of the storm outside. I stared at the ceiling.
Every time he shifted, awareness slid through me. Rustling sheets. The faint exhale when he rolled over. Tossing and turning.
“Are you okay?” I finally asked into the dark. “Can’t sleep?” The fire cast enough light that I could see the outline of his head on the pillow.
“From room to room, I started making a list earlier,” he sighed. “I noted everything I saw that still needs to be done from my very untrained eye. The list is long, Lilah. What if opening day is a disaster?”
“It won’t be.”
“I think I’m panicking. Which is new. I’m usually very chill.” His voice changed—no swagger, no wink, plenty of worry. “What was I thinking, sending the staff away for a few days? Maybe I should’ve kept some of them here, kept pushing through. Should I change opening day? Push back another week?”
The man behind the ego-framed Mr. Snowman article, the one who’d spent a fortune and his pride on this dream and was afraid he’d screwed it all up. Confessed with such vulnerability in his tone, it hit my heart in a way I hadn’t expected.
I wanted to reach over and hug him, assure him, but I tucked my hands beneath my cheek instead.
“Holden, I know I haven’t been here long.
But the staff talks about you with respect for what you’ve built here, and they’re all in on your vision.
” I smiled faintly. “The day I arrived, when I stopped for gas down in Steele Valley before driving up the mountain, even the clerk and two customers were talking about this lodge, eager to see it open. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Thanks. You really think so?”