Chapter 11 Annie
Annie
Letting out a long, weary exhale, I plopped onto the couch, cradling my mug of warm apple cider between my palms. Brooks had spiked it with something strong and smooth—probably whiskey—and the cinnamon-scented steam curled upward, wrapping around me like a blanket.
The warmth seeped through my hands, chasing away the chill I hadn’t realized was clinging to me.
It had been one of those endless days. I’d stumbled home after a full shift, only to disappear into my office the second I walked through the door.
Administrative work had piled high on my desk, the kind of tedious reports and vendor lists that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
By the time I finally emerged, Ruby was already tucked into bed, fast asleep, her soft breathing drifting faintly down the hall.
And then—like something out of a Hallmark movie I’d never admit to watching—I found a plate waiting for me in the microwave. A full, hot meal. A note stuck to the side in Brooks’ blocky handwriting: Eat it while it’s warm, Boss.
The man practically hovered as I sat down at the table, watching every bite with his head tilted, dark hair still damp from his shower.
He’d been so smug, insisting it was the best meal he’d ever cooked, and I’d teased him for it.
But, God help me, he hadn’t been wrong. The chicken was seasoned perfectly, the vegetables roasted until sweet and tender, the potatoes dusted with dill in a way that nearly knocked me off my chair.
I wanted to kiss the chef.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I insisted on doing the dishes. He put up a fight, of course, but I refused to back down. Eventually, Brooks relented, only after extracting a trade-off—spiked cider, a Christmas movie, and my company on the couch.
And that’s how I ended up here. He sat beside me, stretched out like he owned the place, socked feet on the coffee table.
His long arm rested lazily along the back of the couch, mug in hand, while some classic holiday film played in the background.
His low chuckle followed a funny line on-screen, and the sound curled through me, warm and dangerous.
I hated Christmas. Well—hate was a strong word. Maybe deeply disliked.
It was ironic, really. I lived in a town where the holiday wasn’t just a season; it was an identity.
Snowberry Peak didn’t let December end when the calendar did.
No, people here found ways to drag the spirit through the rest of the year.
Lights twinkled in June. Cinnamon-scented candles burned in August. Someone was always humming a carol, even in September.
Brooks tilted his head toward me. “How were things today?” His voice was low, easy, like the question wasn’t just polite—it mattered.
He lifted his mug, taking a slow sip. His dark hair was a little unruly, still messed from earlier when Ruby had shoved a glittery tiara on his head during their tea party. And God, I couldn’t get that image out of my mind.
A mountain of a man, covered in tattoos, wearing a princess gown with the zipper stuck halfway down his muscled back, sipping from a doll-sized teacup. The memory made my stomach flip.
I’d always had a thing for men with tattoos. Big. Strong. The kind who looked like they could throw me over their shoulder without breaking a sweat. My ex-husband had been the opposite of everything I’d ever wanted, and maybe that should have been my first red flag.
Now, sitting here for the second night in a row with Brooks, I was in real danger. Danger of giving in to the pull I felt every time I looked at him. Last night, I’d had to bite my lip not to climb into his lap, not to peel off those clothes and lose myself in him.
And tonight? Tonight was even worse.
I was insanely attracted to my nanny.
“I have a feeling each day is going to get harder,” I finally said, swirling my cider before taking a sip. “The mayor’s a mess. He’s convinced the whole event is going to collapse if we don’t add more food options.”
Brooks let out a low whistle. “What do you have on the menu now?”
I held up my hand, ticking off each dish with my fingers. “Seafood mac and cheese. Bone-in ham. Steak sliders. Caprese sandwiches. Smoked turkey. And about a dozen sides.”
“Sounds like a feast.”
“It is a feast,” I said, groaning. “But now he wants more. I’ve been running myself ragged chasing vendors for the best products.
He refuses to settle for anything less than perfect.
And today, I spent half the afternoon chasing him through the ski lodge because he couldn’t stop fussing about where every single table was going to be for a moment to have a conversation with me. ”
Brooks chuckled, low and easy, but the sound warmed me.
“I swear,” I muttered, leaning my head against the back of the couch, “my feet are still throbbing from running circles around that place. Tomorrow, I’ll be back at the lodge, training the waitstaff, finalizing layouts, and making sample plates with the head chef.
And everything needs to be done by the time I walk through the door. ”
I blew out a frustrated breath. The cider was softening the edges of my stress, but only just.
The truth was, the annual holiday gala at the Snowberry Peak ski lodge was the biggest event of the year.
Elegant, lavish, the kind of thing that kept my catering business thriving.
But it also came at a price. Every detail had to be flawless.
And that pressure was only magnified by the mayor’s impossible standards.
Why I said yes to catering it this year was beyond me. Apparently, I enjoyed punishment.
Brooks leaned forward, setting his mug down on the coffee table with deliberate ease. His gaze flicked to me, an infuriatingly cocky grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Come on,” he said, waving toward his lap.
“Come what?” I narrowed my eyes at him, suspicious.
“Gimme your feet.”
I blinked. “No. God, no.”
“Annie,” he drawled, his voice low and persuasive, “give me your feet.”
“Absolutely not. Are you a madman?”
“Nope,” he replied, utterly unbothered. “I consider myself the opposite, actually. Perfectly level-headed. Now quit arguing and give me your damn feet.”
Before I could launch into a protest, his hand shot out and caught my ankle.
With a quick tug, he laid my foot across his lap like it belonged there.
The warmth of his palm seared through my sock, and before I could stop myself, a tiny sound—half sigh, half moan—slipped out when his thumb pressed against my arch.
“Oh, wow.”
“Yeah?” His voice had a smug edge, but his focus was intent.
Whatever he was doing—it was sorcery. He pressed into the exact spot where the ache burned sharpest, his thumb working in slow, firm circles. It was like he knew precisely where I carried my stress, knew exactly how to unravel it.
“So,” he said casually, his big hands kneading with wicked precision, “this event you’re catering… It’s always this big?”
“Yes,” I managed, trying not to melt completely into the couch. “Every year. People from all over are invited. It’s ironic that I even agreed to do this, because…” I hesitated, taking another sip of cider. “…I hate the holidays.”
His hand faltered for a moment. He looked up at me, dark brows furrowed in disbelief.
“You hate the holidays?”
I swallowed hard, letting the cider warm my throat, trying to steel myself. “Yup. I only participate because of Ruby.”
“Can I ask why?” His voice was softer now, careful.
It was a loaded question. But Brooks had spiked the cider strong enough to loosen my tongue, and sitting this close to him made my filter slide dangerously off-center.
“My parents died a couple weeks before Christmas, a few years ago,” I confessed quietly. “And then in the same season, I caught my ex-husband cheating. With the woman he’s married to now.” I forced a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “So yeah… Christmas has lost its magic for me.”
Brooks’ expression softened, his thumb pausing its work. Sympathy flickered across his features.
“Well, you had me fooled,” he said after a moment. “Why stay here, then? Why not move someplace less… jolly?”
He tapped the foot he’d been massaging and motioned for the other. This time, I didn’t argue. I placed my other foot in his lap, surrendering, because his touch was too damn good to resist.
“I grew up here. In this house, even,” I explained. “There are too many memories to just leave. And I wanted Ruby to have the same kind of upbringing I did. Snowberry Peak really is magical. It’s not the town’s fault I lost my magic.”
His mouth curved slightly, his eyes lingering on me in a way that made my pulse trip. “That magic’s still in you, Annie. Hell, your last name is Cringle.”
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “Speaking of magic… you definitely have some with kids, because Ruby is absolutely smitten with you.”
“Oh? Is she now?” His grin turned wicked.
“Totally. I haven’t seen her so open with anyone outside of my brother. You should feel honored she let you into her tea parties. I’ve never been invited to one.”
He pressed a hand over his chest, feigning solemnity. “I am truly honored.” His fingers returned to working the knots in my foot.
“You definitely have her attention,” I said, my voice quieter this time.
His hands slowed, the room thickening with silence. I sipped my cider again, though my focus wasn’t on the drink anymore. My eyes were locked on him—on the way his gaze lifted and held mine, steady, unflinching.
There was something between us, humming low and electric, like a taut wire stretched between two poles. It snapped against my ribs, sent a ticklish ache spiraling low in my belly.
Then his hand slid higher, past my ankle, over the line of my shin. His fingers brushed my skin, gentle and deliberate.
“What about her mom?” His voice was husky now, intimate. “Do I have her attention?”
My breath caught.
God. I was so screwed.
The way he looked at me was with heat and hunger, steady and unashamed. And then he licked his bottom lip, slow, dragging it between his teeth, and my cheeks flushed hot. The warmth slid lower, flooding down to my chest.
“Possibly,” I whispered, betraying myself with honesty.
His hand moved higher still, teasing along my knee, the touch so feather-light it made my skin tingle. He glanced down at where his fingers brushed me, then back up, his eyes dark and questioning. My lips parted without thought.
The air between us was alive.
“So,” he said at last, his mouth curling, though his tone was rougher than before, “since you don’t like Christmas… you don’t care for Christmas movies either?”
I noticed the flick of his eyes to the TV, then back to me. The deliberate shift, like he’d pulled the emergency brake on a runaway train.
I exhaled, tossing my hair over my shoulder, buying myself a second to breathe. “Not particularly. I hate movies.”
“Huh.” He nodded, almost thoughtful. “Well, I’ve seen this one a hundred times. I know exactly what happens.”
The way his thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of my knee told me he wasn’t planning to continue to watch the movie at all.