Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Ash
It’s snowing again.
Big, slow flakes drifting down like the whole mountain is trying to pretend it’s peaceful.
Like Devil’s Peak isn’t full of people who can’t follow basic safety rules.
Like Lucy Snow isn’t five feet away from me, rearranging boxes of festival supplies in the back of her SUV while humming some off-key Christmas tune that’s been living rent-free in my brain for three days.
I load another box into the truck and try not to look at her.
Fail.
She’s wearing a green sweater that dips dangerously off one shoulder, hair piled on top of her head in some messy knot she probably pulled together without thinking.
A candy cane is tucked behind her ear. There’s glitter on her cheek — again — and I have no idea how she manages to make that look like something a sane man would find attractive.
But I do.
God help me, I do.
“Careful with that one,” she says, holding a box labeled FRAGILE: SNOW GLOBES as if it’s a baby. “They’re vintage.”
“Everything you bring to this festival is vintage,” I mutter.
“It has character.”
“It has lead paint.”
She gasps. “That’s slander.”
“It’s a fact.”
“Then you’re slandering facts.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That’s not how any of that works.”
She grins at me, wide and bright and too damn disarming. “Relax, Calder. You’re going to wrinkle that cranky forehead of yours.”
“Pretty sure that ship has sailed.”
“Hmm.” She tilts her head. “I think the wrinkles are cute.”
I freeze.
She doesn’t seem to notice — or she pretends not to — bending to grab another box. Her sweater slides further, revealing a line of skin I absolutely shouldn’t look at but absolutely do.
It’s over in a second. Not the looking. That would take an act of God. But the moment — the moment where my guard slips.
Because when she stands again, she’s closer.
Too close.
Close enough that our hands brush when she reaches for the same box I do. It’s a split-second touch. Accidental. Nothing.
But it detonates in my chest.
She jerks her hand back like she’s been shocked, eyes wide for a heartbeat before she masks it with a flustered smile. “Uh — sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
The words come out low. Rough. Her breath catches. I should step away. I don’t.
Instead, I take the box from her, fingers grazing hers again — slower this time, a challenge I shouldn’t be issuing.
Her lips part. A mistake. A warning. An invitation.
I look away before I do something I can’t take back.
We work in silence. Thick silence. Every time she shifts, I notice.
Every time she exhales, I hear it. Every time she brushes past me, the heat from her body punches through the cold air like a brand.
And she keeps doing it. Brushing me. Bumping into me.
Moving around me like gravity itself is messing with her equilibrium.
Or mine.
“Okay,” she says finally, dusting her hands on her jeans, “that’s the last of it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I don’t mean for it to sound like a growl. It just does.
She looks up at me, eyes soft. “You didn’t have to help.”
“Yes,” I answer, “I did.”
“Because it’s your job?”
“No.”
She swallows. Hard. “Because…?”
Because I can’t let you strain yourself. Because I can’t stand the thought of you slipping on ice. Because every time you ask me for anything, something in me answers before my brain can catch up. Because I’m already in deeper than I want to admit.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I grunt. “Because you’d probably climb inside the truck to reach something and get stuck.”
She splutters. “I would not.”
“Yes, you would.”
“You think I’m helpless?”
“I think you’re accident-prone.”
She steps closer, hands on her hips. “I am not accident-—”
Her boot slides on a patch of ice. I catch her by the waist before she hits the ground. Again. She blinks up at me, breath puffing white between us. “Oh.”
My hand tightens around her hip. Too tight. Her sweater is soft beneath my palm. Warm. Dangerous.
“You were saying?” I ask.
She swallows. “That was… situational.”
“That was predictable.”
“Maybe you’re just… everywhere I go.”
I stare at her. “Maybe you need someone everywhere you go.”
Silence drops like snow.
She lifts her chin. “Are you volunteering for that position, Calder?”
My pulse spikes. She’s teasing. But she’s not. She never is, not really.
“Lucy,” I say, voice low, “don’t start something you don’t want finished.”
Her breath hitches. She opens her mouth — no idea what’s about to come out — and then claps it shut again.
I loosen my grip on her waist — slow enough for her to feel every second of contact before I let go. We finish loading and unloading supplies, but nothing feels the same. Something snapped. Something tightened between us. She tries to pretend it didn’t happen and does a terrible job.
“So…” she says, brushing hair from her face, “you’re not as grumpy as you pretend.”
I turn to her. Slowly. “Who told you that?”
“No one.” She bites her bottom lip — unconsciously, I think, though it destroys every ounce of restraint I have left. “I mean, you pretend to be this big, bad grump, but sometimes… sometimes you’re just… not.”
“That’s extremely descriptive.”
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Do I?
“Maybe,” she says softly, “you use the grumpiness to hide the fact that you’re actually incredibly nice.”
“Lucy.”
“And sweet.”
“Lucy.”
“And heroic.”
“Lucy.” My voice drops into a warning growl she absolutely ignores.
Her smile turns mischievous. “And maybe you pretend to hate holidays because deep down you—”
I grab her wrist. Her breath catches like I’ve cut off the air. I step in close. Her back hits the side of her SUV. My body shadows hers. I don’t touch her except for the hand around her wrist, but it’s enough. It’s too much.
“Don’t,” I murmur, “finish that sentence.”
She sucks in a breath. “Why?”
“Because I’m trying to be decent.”
“Are you?”
“Barely.”
Her pulse races beneath my fingers. Her eyes flick to my mouth, then away, then back again.
I should release her.
I don’t.
I lower my head, enough that my breath brushes her cheek. “You think you know what I am,” I say, voice rough. “Grumpy. Guarded. Whatever other Christmas-themed labels you want to slap on me.”
“I know what I see,” she whispers.
My grip tightens — not enough to hurt. Just enough that she feels it.
“What do you see?” I ask.
Her lips part. She hesitates. Looks at me like I’m something she shouldn’t want but absolutely does. “I see…” She swallows. “…someone good.”
Damn her.
I close my eyes for half a second, trying not to react, trying not to give away how those words crack straight down the center of me. She pulls gently, and I release her wrist — reluctantly, like letting her go is an act of self-harm.
She takes a shaky breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re… you’re not upset?”
“I’m never upset when you tell me the truth.”
“But you looked—”
“Like I didn’t know what to do with it.” I smirk, humorless. “That’s accurate.”
She stares at me for long, stretched seconds. Like she’s trying to decode everything I’m refusing to say. Then, suddenly, she pushes a thermos toward me.
“Hot cocoa?” she asks, voice trembling just enough to tell me she felt all of that — every charged, unspoken inch of it.
I take the thermos. “You bribing me now?”
“It works on the rest of the crew.”
“I’m not the rest of the crew.”
“No,” she murmurs, eyes dragging over my face, “you are very much not.”
The words hit me like a live wire. I take a slow drink, watching her over the rim. “Be careful with statements like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll start believing them.”
She steps closer, enough that her coat brushes mine. “Ash…”
The sound of my name on her lips is a threat. Or maybe a plea.
I set the thermos on the truck, turning fully toward her.
She tilts her head back to meet my eyes.
We stand there, locked in something thick and hot and unspoken.
The snow falls around us, settling in her hair, her lashes.
She looks like something soft, something bright, something I should stay away from.
I don’t move. She doesn’t either. Then, she breaks the spell with a shaky laugh. “We should get these supplies inside.”
“Yeah,” I say, staring at her mouth, “we should.”
But neither of us moves.
She licks her lips, a nervous habit probably, but it punches the air out of me. Something in me snaps. I step forward. She steps back. We end up inside the storage room doorway, inches apart, breathing the same air, surrounded by garland and half-lit strings of lights.
“Lucy,” I whisper, “don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re waiting for me to make a mistake.”
“Maybe I am.”
I lean in — not touching, but close enough she feels every word. “If I kiss you,” I say quietly, “it won’t be a mistake.”
Her inhale is a tremor. “Ash…”
“Say the word,” I murmur. “Just one. And I won’t hold back.”
She closes her eyes.
For a heartbeat, she looks like she might say it.
Then, Holly’s voice carries from outside. “UNCLE ASH! ARE YOU DONE HELPING MISS LUCY?”
We both freeze. Lucy’s eyes fly open.
I step back like I’ve been doused with cold water. “Yeah, kiddo,” I call out, voice cracked, “coming.”
Lucy presses a hand to her chest like she’s steadying her heart and then we walk out together, both pretending nothing happened. Holly runs over and grabs Lucy’s hand. “Can she come for cookies?”
Lucy looks at me. And for once, I don’t hide anything — not the want, not the fear, not the edge that’s been wearing itself into me since the minute she arrived in this town. She blushes.
“Sure,” I hear myself say, “she can come.”
Lucy swallows.
And even though nothing happened…
Everything did.