Chapter 4
Beau
I stopped believing in Christmas the year my dad died.
Stopped believing in a lot of things, if I'm honest.
Holidays just meant empty chairs and noise I didn't know how to fill, people asking questions I couldn't answer, pity in their eyes that made me want to disappear. So I came up here instead. Traded tinsel for timber, parties for peace, crowds for solitude.
And for a long time, it worked.
Until now.
Faith sits cross-legged on the rug by the fire, a mug of cocoa balanced in her hands.
Her hair catches the firelight, turning the color of spun gold.
She's humming again—soft, unselfconscious, some carol I half-remember from childhood—and the sound crawls right under my skin and settles there, warm and insistent.
"Are you always this quiet?" she asks without looking up.
"Mostly."
"That's a shame. You've got a nice voice. Deep. Certain."
I huff a laugh, surprised by the compliment. "Haven't had much reason to use it."
She studies me for a long beat, her expression softer than I'm ready for. Seeing past the walls. "You make toys for kids you'll never meet. Your generosity and charity connect you to people, whether you like it or not."
Something tightens in my chest, squeezes hard. I set down the carving knife I've been pretending to use, fingers suddenly unsteady. "It's not charity. It's just something I know how to do."
"Still counts as kindness. You’re practically Santa Claus."
She says it like it's fact, like she's certain there's good in me worth finding. And for the first time in years, I want to believe her.
The storm outside has settled into a steady hush.
The snow is still falling, still blocking us in, but it’s quieter now.
Like the mountain's holding its breath. The fire pops, sending up a shower of sparks.
I move to toss another log on, but she beats me to it, unfolding from the rug with easy grace.
She kneels beside the hearth, reaching for the wood I'd stacked. Her sweater rides up as she leans forward, revealing a tempting curve of soft skin above her jeans, the small of her back, pale and smooth.
My pulse kicks hard.
Hell.
When she turns, she catches me looking. Instead of blushing or looking away, she smiles—slow and knowing, like she understands exactly what she's doing to me.
"You really don't get many visitors, do you?"
"Not the kind who wear Santa hats and smell like sugar cookies."
Her laugh spills out, low and warm, more intimate than it should be. "Guess I'll take that as a compliment."
I don't trust myself to answer. My hands flex uselessly at my sides, aching to touch. To see if her skin is as soft as it looks. To find out if she tastes as sweet as she smells.
"You should, uh, get some sleep," I manage, voice coming out rougher than intended. "Guest room's down the hall. Extra blankets on the shelf if you need them."
She tilts her head, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes. "You're trying to get rid of me."
"I'm trying to be a gentleman."
Her gaze lingers on me for a heartbeat too long. Then she nods slowly, stands, and brushes past, so close her sleeve grazes my arm. So close I can feel the warmth radiating off her body. The faint scent of vanilla trails behind her, sweet and haunting, wrapping around me like smoke.
"Goodnight, Beau," she says softly.
When her door clicks shut down the hall, I stare into the fire until the embers blur.
Because for the first time in a long while, I'm not thinking about wood or solitude or silence.
I'm thinking about the woman in my guest room.
About the curve of her smile and the light in her eyes.
About how much longer I can pretend I don't want her.