Chapter 12 Rourke
TWELVE
Rourke
I glance at the decorative sign hanging by the door: Honeymoon Haven.
Great. Because this situation wasn’t complicated enough.
I unlock the door and step inside quickly, hoping there's a pullout couch. Even though renting this cabin will keep us safe and out of the snow, Janie might actually murder me when she sees the sleeping arrangements.
Janie follows me in and immediately freezes. For a moment, she says nothing as she surveys the space: a chair by the fireplace too small to sleep in, no couch, and of course, one very large bed.
She clears her throat. “Well, this is cozy.”
The cabin is surprisingly nice with exposed wooden beams, a stone fireplace with logs stacked next to it, and a small kitchenette tucked into one corner. The cabin is exactly what I was afraid it would be—small, secluded, and romantic. If we were actually a couple, it would be perfect.
“I’ll take the floor,” I offer. Though glancing at the hardwood, I’m already dreading what my body will feel like tomorrow.
“See?” she says brightly, moving to the opposite side of the room. “This place is plenty big for two of us.”
I don’t really believe the optimism she’s pretending to have right now. A rose-colored spin on this one-bed situation is only amplifying the unspoken tension between us.
Janie wraps her arms around her waist. “Is it cold in here? I’m freezing.”
I search the room for a thermostat and don’t see one. “I think the fireplace is the only thing to heat the room,” I say, moving toward the pile of logs. “I’ll get a fire going if you want to take a hot shower.”
“Thanks.” She moves toward the bathroom without another word.
I busy myself building the fire, partly because I need something to do that isn’t thinking about the impossible situation I’ve gotten myself into. This feels like the world’s worst game show: survive a night sharing a room with the woman you’re attracted to—without screwing everything up.
And the worst part? I can’t text a teammate and ask them what they would do.
The group text thread would blow up. Leo would never let me hear the end of it, and Jaxon’s teasing would turn highly inappropriate.
Even Miles would find some way to turn this into twenty questions about how I got the one woman who doesn’t like me to agree to share a room.
I hear the water turn on and try very hard not to think about what’s happening on the other side of that door.
Instead, I focus on the fire in front of me, the weight of the ornament still in my jacket pocket.
When am I supposed to give her this? Especially now that things are tense between us?
It’s not like I can say, “Hey, I got you this random gift for no reason, even though you’re currently mad at me. ”
The last thing I need is for her to wonder if I’m expecting something—like being stuck here alone means I’m hoping for more.
She’s obviously attractive. And that kiss was proof that she’s getting under my skin. But Little Miss Christmas would never actually go for someone like me.
So tonight, I’ll give her all the space she needs.
I head to the only closet in the room and pull out extra blankets so I can figure out how I’m going to make the floor work as my bed. While spreading them out, a shrill yell erupts from the bathroom.
Something is wrong, but it’s not like I can just walk in there and check. “Are you okay?” I call out.
“The water just turned ice cold!” she shouts. “What do I do?”
I move to the door. “Try turning it off and back on?”
“I did. Oh my gosh, this is freezing!”
I can hear her moving around, the water turning on, and another yelp of pain.
Unfortunately, I’m helpless to do anything on the other side of this door. “Maybe wait a little?”
“I don’t think it’s getting better,” she stutters. “And this bathroom is s-so c-cold.”
“Maybe pretend it’s a cold plunge?” I suggest.
“You’re not helping,” she growls.
Then the door flies open, and Janie stumbles out wrapped in a towel that covers just enough of her body, but feels wrong somehow.
Or maybe it’s my reaction to her that’s wrong.
Because this should be an emergency situation, but instead all I can focus on is the fact that she's standing in front of me in nothing but a towel.
Her hair is dripping down her shoulders, her skin mottled from the cold water, her teeth chattering.
“Come here and get warm,” I say, moving toward her, then stop abruptly when I realize what I just suggested. I can’t warm her up. That would definitely make things worse. “I mean, by the fire.” I point at the crackling logs. “It’s hot…obviously.”
She’s too cold to be embarrassed, which is probably a good thing because I’m embarrassed enough for both of us. I grab the extra blanket from my makeshift bed and hold it out to her without glancing at her.
Because if I look directly at her, I’m going to be the next one who needs a cold shower.
“Here, wrap this around you,” I instruct, trying to focus on the practical.
She takes it quickly, layering it over the towel, covering her shoulders and legs to the knees, but she’s still shaking.
“Sit,” I tell her, gesturing to the spot on the floor closest to the fireplace. She sinks down onto the blankets I’d laid out for myself, and I add another log onto the fire.
“Better?” I ask, still not quite looking at her directly. Instead, I focus on the crackling flames, the way the logs are turning that sooty shade of blackish gray.
“A little.” She’s still shivering, but less than before.
“We probably ran out of hot water,” I say, settling down beside her, careful to keep a respectable distance and my eyes on the fire.
“So much for finishing my shower.” She pulls the blanket tighter around herself. “I probably still smell like gingerbread and overpriced hot chocolate.”
“So you admit I’m right about the hot chocolate?”
“Well, yes,” she says. “It was way too expensive. And I stupidly fell for it.”
“You didn’t fall for it. You just have a soft heart. You’d probably pay ten bucks even if it was a kid selling lukewarm Swiss Miss on the sidewalk.”
“You’re not wrong.” She gives me a guilty smile. “I’m a sucker for kids.”
Right now, I’m trying very hard not to notice how the firelight is catching the water droplets rolling down her neck. “For the record, you smell like…Christmas.”
She gives me a side-eye. “You think Christmas smells good?”
“Like something sweet. And minty. And suspiciously cinnamon-adjacent. Nothing terrible.”
Her eyes narrow. “You realize you just admitted you like something about Christmas.”
“No, I didn’t. I said it wasn’t terrible. That’s neutral.”
“Oh no. You said ‘sweet.’ That’s basically a compliment.”
“I take it back,” I deadpan. “Christmas smells like the inside of a gym bag. Or Jaxon’s socks. Something truly awful.”
She laughs. “Too late. I heard it.”
“I think the cold water has affected your brain,” I say. “Maybe you should get dressed.”
“Yeah, I should, but I don’t even have pajamas. Just my clothes from today.”
I glance at my Crushers bag, the one I always keep in my car with spare clothes. “Here,” I say, getting up and pulling out my #18 jersey and joggers. “These should work.” I toss them her way.
“Oh, no, I’m not wearing your jersey.” She returns the jersey with a quick toss. “Because that would admit defeat.”
“It’s just for tonight, Janie,” I say. “It has nothing to do with the bet.”
She crosses her arms. “I’d rather freeze.”
“I’m about to let you test that theory.”
“You’d probably enjoy seeing me suffer.”
“Maybe, but there’s always my Crushers sweatshirt.” I root around in my bag until I find it. “Unless that’s in the same category as the jersey?” I toss the sweatshirt at her.
She unfolds it, holding it up to her body. “This is going to be huge on me.”
“Better baggy and warm than cold and miserable.”
She bites her lip, then disappears into the bathroom to change.
When she comes back out, I do a double take. My sweatshirt hangs to her mid-thighs like a dress, the sleeves covering her hands completely, the Crushers logo emblazoned across her chest.
Her legs are bare, and her hair is starting to curl as it dries. She looks incredible, and seeing her in my clothes scrambles my brain.
“So…no joggers, then?” I ask, intentionally turning to gaze at the fire instead of her.
Not that I mind. That’s the entire problem.
“They’re too big. Couldn’t keep them up.” She hands them back to me as she settles down on the blankets beside me, tucking her legs under the extra blanket. “I figure this works as a dress.”
We sit in silence watching the flames, but there’s an undercurrent humming between us. Maybe it’s how small this cabin is or how she’s wearing my sweatshirt while pretending that nobody really cares that it’s mine.
“So,” she says finally. “This is awkward.”
I chuckle. “Awkward is one way of putting it.”
Her gaze lands on my pile of blankets on the floor. “That’s going to destroy your back.”
I shrug. “I’ll survive.”
“Well, it’s not right. Especially after dragging you to the Christmas festival.”
“It’s fine, Janie,” I say. “Not like there’s an alternative.”
She glances at the bed, then at me, clearly torn. “I mean, it’s a big bed. We could share it. Like adults.”
I clench my jaw. “That’s not a good option.”
“I mean, we both need sleep.” She’s focused intently on the fire now. “And it’s not like anything would happen. We’re just two people…sharing a bed…because of circumstances beyond our control.”
“Janie…” I hesitate, every instinct warning me that sharing a bed is asking for trouble. She’s a single mom who’s not looking for a rebound. It definitely won’t help the attraction that’s becoming impossible for me to ignore.
“We’re adults,” she says, but there’s a flush in her cheeks now. “We can handle sleeping in the same space without it meaning anything.”
Without it meaning anything. Biggest lie ever.
The problem is everything about tonight has meant something—the look in her eyes when she skated with me, the way she leaned into me when she kissed me.
“Okay,” she says, turning away from me, “if it makes you uncomfortable, forget I mentioned it. I was just trying to help.”
There’s hurt in her voice now, like my hesitation is a rejection of her as a person rather than me trying to be responsible.
“I’m not uncomfortable.” I search for the right words that won’t make this harder to explain and come up empty.
“Then what’s your deal?”
I study her sitting there in my sweatshirt like a beautiful dream, and I know I can’t tell her the truth—that sharing a bed with her might be crossing a line I’m not sure I can uncross.
“Nothing,” I say finally. “You’re right. We’re both adults. It’s fine.”
The relief on her face is immediate. “That’s settled, then.”
But it’s not.
And we both know it.