Chapter 9
NINE
GREER
If I had known today would include both a blizzard and the possibility of my heart breaking, I would have worn sturdier boots.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Holt asks for the third time as I sit on one of the lobby benches.
“Yes,” I say, tugging the ice pack tighter against my ankle. “For the hundredth time. I slipped, not died.”
He crosses his arms. “Okay, but it was a dramatic slip. Full wind-swoop. Very cinematic.”
“It was a patch of black ice,” I say flatly. “Not an action sequence.”
“Agree to disagree.”
My ankle throbs, but only a little now. Mostly I’m embarrassed. Mason helped me up. A guest saw. Holt saw. The wind saw. The universe saw.
And now everyone is fussing over me exactly the way I hate.
Holt opens his mouth to say something else deeply unhelpful, but the front doors slam open so hard the wreath rattles.
My pulse jumps.
Brenton barrels inside. Snow clings to his jacket. His hair is wet. His breathing is heavy like he sprinted from the truck.
His eyes find me instantly.
And the look on his face, there’s raw fear and relief. It hits me so hard I nearly forget how to breathe.
He strides toward me, fast, like nothing else in the room exists.
“Are you hurt?” he demands, dropping to a crouch in front of me before I can answer.
I blink. “I—I’m fine. Just a twisted ankle.”
Cruz slips in behind him, catching his breath. “She’s good, man. We checked on the radio. But you know. Brenton here needed visual confirmation.”
Brenton shoots Cruz a death glare so potent that Cruz mutters “okay shutting up now” and wanders away.
Brenton turns back to me, gaze roaming over my legs, my arms, my hands like he’s cataloguing injuries I don’t have.
“Where?” he asks, voice low.
“My ankle,” I say softly. “It’s barely anything.”
He reaches out—hesitates—then gently cups the back of my calf, sliding his hand down to my ankle with slow care. The warmth of his touch sinks through the denim of my jeans. My breath catches.
“You scared me,” he says, voice rough.
My chest tightens. “It wasn’t—Brenton, it was just a slip.”
“You don’t slip in a storm without me worrying.”
“You weren’t even here!”
“That’s the problem,” he shoots back.
Heat rushes up my spine.
He looks up at me, eyes blazing.
“I can’t do this halfway,” he says, voice trembling with something he’s trying to hold back. “I can’t kiss you and then find out you’re hurt and feel like—like I can’t get to you fast enough.”
My heart thuds painfully. “You’re upset because I slipped?”
“I’m upset because I—” He stops. Clenches his jaw. Looks away.
Because he what?
He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Greer, I meant what I said earlier. I don’t regret anything between us. But I need—”
“If you say ‘time’ again,” I cut in, voice breaking, “I’m going to throw this ice pack at you.”
His brows slam together in disbelief. “You’re mad at me?”
“Yes!” The word bursts out of me. “You kissed me—twice—and then pulled back like I’m the problem!”
His eyes widen.
“You’re not a problem,” he says quickly.
“Then what am I?” My throat tightens. “Because I don’t know how to feel about someone who kisses me like that and then says he’s not sure he can give me anything real.”
His jaw flexes.
“Greer,” he whispers. “I didn’t say I can’t. I said I’m scared I’ll fall short.”
Something inside me splinters.
He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see that I’m scared too. That I’ve spent years wanting things I was afraid to claim.
“Brenton,” I whisper, “if you don’t want me, just say it.”
The words break something open between us.
He surges to his feet so fast the bench creaks.
“Don’t want you?” His voice is low. He steps closer until I can feel the heat rolling off him. “You think that’s what this is?”
I can’t speak.
He leans in, bracing one hand against the wall beside my head. The other slides to my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my sweater.
I gasp.
“Greer,” he murmurs, mouth inches from mine, “I can’t stop wanting you.”
My pulse plummets straight through the floor.
His grip tightens.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says. “Not when I’m working. Not when I’m trying to sleep. Not when I thought you were hurt. Especially not when I kiss you.”
My entire body goes hot.
He drops his forehead to mine.
“And it’s driving me insane,” he whispers.
I close my eyes.
“Then why are you pulling back?” I breathe.
He hesitates—but only barely.
“I’m scared,” he says.
“So am I,” I whisper.
His breath trembles against my lips.
And then—
his mouth crashes into mine.
Not soft.
Not tentative.
Not mistletoe.
This kiss is heat and apology and need and everything we didn’t say in the storm.
I fist the front of his jacket and pull him down harder. He groans—actually groans—and the sound shoots straight through me.
His hands slide up my sides, over my ribs, around my waist. He tilts my head back and kisses me deeper, slower, hotter.
Someone coughs somewhere across the lobby. A guest. Maybe two.
We break apart, breathing like we just outran an avalanche.
His forehead rests on mine. His voice is ragged.
“I can’t do this here.”
“Then don’t,” I whisper. “Take me somewhere we can actually talk. Or—” I swallow. “Or not talk.”
He lets out a shaky laugh that sounds like surrender.
But then Holt appears in the hallway with the exact wrong timing.
“Greer,” he calls out. “We need you for the shelter-in-place briefing.”
I let my head fall back against the wall. “I hate timing,” I mutter.
Brenton steps away slowly, breath uneven.
“This isn’t done,” he says.
My pulse stutters.
“No,” I say. “It’s not.”
His eyes flick to my lips one last time—hungry, aching—before he forces himself to turn and walk away.
But he looks back once. Just once. And the look says everything: We’re not finished.
My knees go weak.
“Okay,” Holt says, appearing beside me like a judgmental ghost. “So that was…a lot.”
I can’t answer. Words are extinct. My brain is soup.
He studies me. “You good?”
I inhale shakily. “No. Yes. Maybe. Absolutely not.”
He pats my shoulder. “So…Chapter Ten is going to be fun then.”
I drop my face into my hands.
Because he’s right.
Everything is heading toward a point I can feel like gravity:
Brenton and I are about to cross a line we can’t uncross.
And the worst part?
I want it. So much. It scares me almost as much as the storm.
Almost.