Chapter 5
FIVE
GREER
I wake up with the taste of mint and adrenaline on my lips.
No. Not adrenaline. Brenton.
I bolt upright in bed, hair a tangled mess, heart pounding in that way it does when you relive something over and over in your sleep.
I kissed him.
No, he kissed me.
Okay, technically we kissed each other under mistletoe, with Holt walking in at the worst possible moment, but the important thing is that Brenton’s mouth was on mine, his hands warm on my waist, and I officially need to rewrite my entire understanding of the universe.
I flop back against my pillow and let out a sound that is definitely not human. More like a strangled moan mixed with a squeak.
Because here’s the thing… I don’t kiss people lightly. And the way I kissed Brenton?There was nothing light about it.
My phone vibrates. A text from Holt.
Morning. Bring caffeine. Also, please don’t murder me for witnessing the Mistletoe Incident of 2025.
I groan and toss my phone aside.
I need a shower. I need about twelve cups of coffee. I need a new identity, preferably in a country with no mistletoe.
An hour later, I push open the lodge’s staff room door holding two coffees, only one of which is for me. Holt is leaning against the table, scrolling on his phone like a man who has done absolutely nothing wrong in his life.
“Took you long enough,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’ve told no one except three housekeepers and the entire breakfast shift.”
My jaw drops. “You did what?”
He grins. “Relax. I’m kidding. I only told one housekeeper. Maybe two. Unclear. It was early.”
“Holt!” I hiss.
He pats my arm. “Your panic is adorable. Now give me my coffee.”
I hand it to him begrudgingly, then move toward my cubby almost on autopilot. My heart picks up speed when I see it.
A small, neatly wrapped brown-paper package sits inside. A red string is tied in a bow on top.
Secret Santa Gift #2.
Oh no.
Oh yes.
“Oh,” Holt says around his coffee. “Your Santa is consistent. Cute bow.”
“Don’t,” I whisper, reaching inside with trembling fingers.
He holds up one hand like he’s surrendering. “I’m not saying a word until you open it. Then I will say many words.”
I ignore him and untie the string.
Inside the paper is a small box.
Inside the box is—
I gasp softly.
A navy cloth-covered notebook.
Not too big. Not too small.
The kind of notebook you’d tuck into a pocket when inspiration hits.
There’s a handwritten note under the elastic band.
I unfold it carefully.
For the plans you write down and the ones you don’t say out loud yet. You’re allowed to want big things.
I freeze.
“Oh,” Holt says, taking a step forward. “Oh. That’s…wow.”
I swallow hard. My throat is tight.
“Who writes things like this?” I whisper.
“Someone who knows you,” Holt says softly.
That should be comforting. It is not.
Because someone who knows me, someone who sees me… Someone who would notice I hesitate to talk about my plans.
That narrows the field significantly.
Brenton knows I want to build my event-planning business. He knows I’m cautious. He knows I downplay my dreams.
“Oh God,” I breathe. “What if—”
“Nope,” Holt says immediately. “I know that face, and you need to slow down. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“I’m not jumping,” I say. “I’m gently stepping toward them.”
“You are sprinting,” Holt corrects. “Full Olympic speed.”
I glare at him, but I’m shaking slightly as I trace the edge of the notebook.
Someone is paying attention. Someone sees more than they should. Someone is extremely perceptive.
And then something else hits me.
If this is Brenton—if he gave me the hand warmers and the notebook… If he kissed me like that and wrote these words…
I am in big, big trouble.
Because I can’t have both a fantasy Santa and a real, distracting, impossibly kind firefighter.
My heart doesn’t do “light.”
Holt studies me for a moment. “Okay,” he says gently. “We’re going to breathe. One inhale. One exhale.”
“I’m fine,” I say, which is the most obvious lie I’ve ever told.
He points at the notebook. “Do you like it?”
That lands right in my chest. “I love it.”
“Then whoever gave it to you,” he says, “has good instincts. That’s all you need to know until the reveal.”
I nod, clutching the notebook to my chest.
But all I can think is:
Brenton could have written that. Brenton could have chosen this. Brenton could be thinking about me right now.
And that might be the most troubling thought I’ve ever had.
The lodge buzzes all morning. Guests check in, cookies come out of the oven, pine-scented garlands get replaced, and Holt runs point while I reorganize the ballroom plan.
But even while I work, my mind keeps drifting—
To last night. To Brenton’s hands on my waist. To his mouth on mine. To the gentleness under the heat.
“What’s wrong with me?” I mutter as I rearrange the ornament table for the fourth time.
“Everything,” Holt calls from across the room. “Absolutely everything. You’re in love. It’s tragic.”
“I am not—” I begin, but the lobby doors open and the cold rushes in, and any words I had die on my tongue.
Brenton walks in. Fresh snow dusts his hair. His jacket is unzipped just enough to show a navy thermal shirt beneath.
And his eyes— His eyes immediately find mine.
It’s not subtle. It’s not even close.
My heart flings itself against my ribs like a startled bird.
He walks toward me, not too fast, not too slow. Just steady. Purposeful. Like he’s been thinking about this too.
“Morning,” he says softly.
Holt backs away instantly. “I’m going to the kitchen,” he announces loudly. “To check on something. Maybe forever.”
He disappears.
Coward.
Brenton clears his throat, shifting slightly like he’s not sure where to put his hands. “How, uh…how are you?”
“Good,” I say, voice too high. I cough. “Good. Busy. You?”
“Same,” he says. “We’ve had a few calls. Mostly small things.”
“That’s good,” I whisper.
He nods, studying me. “You look tired.”
“And you look…”
Beautiful?
Breathtaking?
Way too damn fuckable?
“…awake,” I finish weakly.
He smiles. That same devastating, slow-bloom smile that should be illegal on the face of a man who climbs ladders for fun.
“I wanted to check on you,” he says.
The words hit me. Hard.
“You did?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Last night…we didn’t really get to talk. And I didn’t want you to think I regretted anything.”
My breath catches. “You don’t?”
His eyes flick to my lips. “No. Not even a little.”
Heat surges through me, bright and dizzying.
But then he shifts his stance. Something uncertain flickers in his eyes. “But I also don’t want to make things messy for you. With work. With the lodge. With…anything.”
“I can handle messy,” I whisper.
His breath hitches.
We’re on the edge of something again. I can feel it like a pull in my bones.
And then—
“Greer?” The front desk calls out. “A guest needs to talk about the Sleigh Ride sign-up.”
The moment shatters.
I close my eyes briefly. “Of course.”
Brenton steps back, nodding once. “Go. I’ll…be around.”
I turn to help the guest but feel him behind me the whole time, a warm presence in my peripheral vision. When I finish and look back toward him, he’s gone.
My pulse thunders.
And that’s when I see it—
A small note sticking out of my cubby slot. Not a gift. Just a folded piece of paper that wasn’t there a minute ago.
My breath hitches.
I walk to it slowly, hands trembling, and unfold it.
It’s not signed.
There are only four words:
Not done with last night.
The note slips from my fingers.
I grip the edge of the table to steady myself, heart racing, blood roaring in my ears.
Because I know two things with absolute clarity:
One, I am falling for Brenton. So. Damn. Hard.
Two, My Secret Santa may be him, or may not—but he definitely wrote this note.
Which means…
He wants more.
And I do too.
But I don’t get to think about it long—
Because a lodge-wide alert pings on my phone:
A blizzard warning has just been issued for Wilder Mountain. All staff must prepare for possible guest shelter-in-place.
My stomach flips.
A blizzard. Guests. Safety. Brenton.
Everything is about to get complicated.
And I’m not sure my heart is ready for any of it.