Chapter 3
Noel
I wake up wrapped around him like a vine.
My leg is thrown over his thigh. My hand is splayed across his chest. My face is buried in the crook of his neck, and oh God, I can feel his heartbeat against my cheek.
The air beyond our blanket cocoon is still icy, but inside it’s a pocket of heat—body warmth and the faint, lingering breath of the fire below.
This is not staying on my side of the bed.
I should move. I should definitely move.
Except he's so warm, and the air outside our blanket cocoon is arctic, and his arm is heavy across my waist in a way that feels less like an accident and more like an anchor.
I hold very still, trying to figure out how to extract myself without waking him.
"You're awake," he says, his voice rough with sleep.
Abort mission.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I didn't mean to… I must have moved in my sleep."
"It's fine." But he doesn't let go. If anything, his arm tightens slightly. "You were cold. I added another log to the fire sometime in the night."
"Right. Cold. Body heat. Very practical."
"Very practical," he agrees, and there's something in his voice—a dark thread of amusement—that makes my stomach flip.
I should pull away. This is weird, right? We're strangers who met approximately twelve hours ago. Strangers who are currently tangled together like we do this every morning.
But I don't move.
Neither does he.
"The storm's still going," he says after a moment.
I listen. He's right. Wind batters the windows. Snow hisses against the glass.
We're not going anywhere today.
"Guess we're stuck with each other a little longer," I say.
"Guess so."
His thumb traces a slow circle on my hip—absent, automatic, like he doesn't realize he's doing it. But I realize. Oh, I very much realize. That tiny motion sends heat spiraling through me that has nothing to do with blankets.
I need to get up. Need space. Need to remember that I came here to get over a breakup, not to fall into bed with a mountain man who probably has a girlfriend. Or a wife. Or a very reasonable explanation for why he's spending Christmas alone in a cabin and doesn't want company.
"Do you—" I start, then stop.
"Do I what?"
"Have someone? Like, someone who's going to be mad you spent the night with a stranger?"
He's quiet for a beat. "No."
"Oh."
"You?"
"Freshly single. As of three weeks ago." I don't know why I'm telling him this. "He said I was 'too much.' Too loud, too optimistic, too... everything."
Kyler's hand stills on my hip. "He's an idiot."
Something warm blooms in my chest. "You don't know me well enough to say that."
"I know enough." His voice drops lower. "You're not too much."
I lift my head to look at him, and that's a mistake. Because his eyes are storm-gray in the dim morning light, and they're fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His jaw is shadowed with more than a day's worth of beard. His hair is messy from sleep.
He looks like every bad decision I've ever wanted to make.
"Kyler—"
"We should get up," he says abruptly, and rolls away.
The loss of his warmth is immediate and brutal. I curl into myself as he climbs out of bed, and try not to feel rejected.
He wasn't rejecting you, I tell myself. He was being responsible. Smart. All the things you should be.
He heads downstairs, and I hear him stoking the fire. I take the opportunity to splash some frigid water on my face from the bathroom—the pipes are still working, thank God—and try to get my head on straight.
This is temporary. The storm will pass. The roads will open. I'll go back to my life, and he'll go back to his, and this will just be a weird story I tell at parties.
Except I don't want it to be just a story.
I push the thought away and head downstairs.
Kyler's added more logs to the fire, and the main room is almost cozy now. He's making coffee on the gas stove—apparently the cabin has a backup propane setup—and the smell alone is enough to make me forgive him for the abrupt exit earlier.
"You're a saint," I say, accepting the mug he hands me.
"I'm really not."
There's something in his tone that makes me look up, but his expression is unreadable.
We spend the morning in careful orbit around each other. He reads a book. I attempt to make sense of the paperback thriller I brought, but I keep reading the same paragraph over and over because I'm too aware of him across the room.
The way he frowns when he's concentrating. The way he absently rubs his jaw. The way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention.
By afternoon, the cabin feels smaller. The air feels thicker.
"I'm going stir-crazy," I announce, setting down my book. "Want to play a game?"
He raises an eyebrow. "What kind of game?"
"I don't know. Twenty questions? Truth or dare?"
"We're not twelve."
"Fine. How about you just tell me something about yourself? Something real."
He closes his book slowly. "Why?"
"Because we're stuck together, and I'd rather know the person I'm sharing a bed with.
" I curl my legs under me. "I'll go first. I'm a kindergarten teacher.
I love my job even though it pays terribly and I come home covered in glitter most days.
I wanted kids of my own, but Trevor didn't, and I kept thinking maybe he'd change his mind, and. .." I trail off. "Anyway. Your turn."
Kyler is quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. Then he says, "I'm a carpenter. I build furniture. Custom pieces, mostly."
"That's perfect for you."
"Why?"
"You've got that whole 'strong silent craftsman' thing going on." I grin. "Do you have a workshop with sawdust and dramatic lighting?"
His mouth twitches. "Something like that."
"What else?"
"I used to celebrate Christmas." The words come out flat. "I don't anymore."
The shift in tone is immediate. I set down my coffee. "What happened?"
"My fiancée died. Two years ago. Car accident, two days before Christmas."
Oh.
Oh.
"Kyler, I'm so sorry—"
"It's fine." But the way he says it makes it clear it's not fine. Will probably never be fine. "I came here to avoid all the holiday bullshit. The pitying looks. The 'you should start dating again' speeches." He looks at me. "And instead I got you."
"The universe has a sick sense of humor," I say softly.
"Yeah."
We sit in silence for a moment. The fire crackles. Outside, the storm continues its assault.
"For what it's worth," I say finally, "I'm glad I'm stuck with you and not some actual serial killer."
That earns me a huff that might be a laugh. "High praise."
"I mean it. You're..." I search for the right word. "Safe."
Something flickers in his eyes. "Am I?"
The way he asks it makes my pulse spike. Because suddenly the air between us feels charged again, heavy with all the things we're not saying.
I should make a joke. Lighten the mood. Go back to my side of the cabin.
Instead, I say, "Are you?"
He stands abruptly, crossing to where I'm sitting on the couch. My heart hammers as he stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
And then he's cupping my face with both hands, tilting my chin up, and his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is... Jesus. It's everything. Fierce and gentle at once, desperate and controlled, like he's been holding back for hours—or maybe years—and finally snapped.
I make a sound against his lips, and he groans in response, deepening the kiss. His hands slide into my hair. Mine fist in his shirt. The world narrows to just this. His mouth. His hands. The solid wall of his chest as I pull him closer.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"We shouldn't—" he starts.
"Probably not," I agree.
"This is a bad idea."
"Terrible."
But I'm already pulling him back down.
He kisses me again, slower this time, thorough and devastating. Then he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs.
I slide my hands up his chest, feeling his heart pounding under my palms. "What if I don't want you to stop?"
His eyes go dark. "Noel—"
"I know this is crazy. I know we just met. But I'm so tired of being careful. Of being too much or not enough." I meet his gaze. "I want this. I want you."
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then, slowly, deliberately, he smiles, transforming his whole face. He’s so fucking beautiful.
"Thank God," he breathes, and kisses me again.
This time, there's no hesitation. No holding back. He lifts me easily, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me toward the stairs.
"Bedroom?" he asks against my mouth.
"Yes," I gasp. "Definitely yes."
He takes the stairs two at a time, and I laugh breathlessly into his shoulder because this is insane and perfect and exactly what I didn't know I needed.
He lays me down on the bed—the same bed we shared last night, except now there's no pretense of space between us. He hovers over me, his weight on his forearms, his eyes searching mine.
"You're sure?" he asks.
I pull him down to me. "I've never been more sure of anything."
And then there are no more words. Just his hands learning my body, my fingers tracing the muscles of his back, the two of us coming together like we were always meant to find each other in this storm.
His hands slide under my sweater, palms rough and warm against my skin. I arch into his touch, and he makes a low sound in his throat that goes straight through me.
"You're so soft," he murmurs, pushing the sweater up. I help him pull it over my head, and then his mouth is on my collarbone, my shoulder, the curve of my breast above my bra.
I'm fumbling with the buttons of his flannel, desperate to feel skin. He helps me, shrugging out of it and tossing it aside. And then I can finally touch him—the broad expanse of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the trail of dark hair that disappears into his jeans.
"God, you're beautiful," I breathe.
He huffs a laugh against my neck. "That's my line, beautiful."