Page 37 of My Rival for Christmas

It’s bad enough that he knows about what happened with Cole, that he sees the difficulties I’m having with skating. But I draw the line at him seeing me throw up.

That’s something I just can’t come back from.

“Thought so.” Nate skates over to where I’m still lingering, not stopping until the tips of his skates touch the tips of mine.

“Just give me one hour,” he says softly, in a raspy, almost pleading voice.

I bite the inside of my cheek, glancing up to the sky again. And squint. Did they just get darker? No, now I’m just being paranoid. I can survive an hour with Nate. I’ve survived a lot worse.

Plus, Kylie is making good use of having our hotel room all to herself for a little bit. I can’t interrupt her plans.

“One hour,” I say in a steely tone, making it sound like it’s actually my idea.

“One hour,” Nate agrees easily. “And then we can get out of here.”

Hereis Nate’s family’s fishing cabin.

The very place he spends every Christmas.

Apparently, they used to own a house in town until Nate moved in with his grandparents in Brooklyn so he could train at Charmed and his dad could still do his job as a truck driver, deciding to just keep this cabin that Nate’s great-grandfather built.

Nate told me all about this while barely paying attention to the tight curves on the mountain road, when I didn’t think we’d actually make it here safely. But now that we have, I’m a little stunned with the view.

The jagged mountain peaks are painted across the sky, with woodland all around us, save for right in the middle of this snowy Bob Ross landscape, where a modest alpine lake sits frozen over.

No wonder he likes to come here.

There’s a peacefulness that can’t be bought. No resort or spa or vacation to the mountains could replicate.

It feels like we stepped through a portal. To this surreal, almost otherworldly place. Untouched by human corruption, save for the little hand-built cabin.

Which sits not far where we stand, decorated with a colorful array of Christmas lights strung along the roof while garland wraps around the porch with a matching wreath on the door. Even the small decorative statue of a black bear holding a fish dons a red and white Santa hat.

The sight is even more arresting than the panoramic view. If only because I don’t often think of two bachelor men decorating for Christmas. And maybe that’s wrong on my part, to assume or assign ideas, but I guess it’s because I didn’t realize Nate cared enough about the holiday to dedicate the time and care into even putting up a tree, much less decorations.

Unless…

“Did your dad remarry?” A lot can change in two years. Maybe Mr. Ford found love on the road. (See, I’m not always a cynic.)

“My dad? No.” Nate shakes his head, taking the hat he’s had tucked in his back pocket and slipping it on his head. Backwards, of course. “Why?”

I gesture toward the house. “I was just curious to see who decorated it, I guess.”

“That was me.” He smirks. “So if you’re looking to direct your compliments somewhere, I’m ready when you are.”

“Who said anything about compliments? Your wreath is crooked.” I skate away from him.

If I don’t, I’m afraid we’ll just keep bickering until the cold has frozen us over.

Time seems to stand still when we get locked into an argument. Or maybe I’m so single-mindedly focused, I can’t concentrate on anything outside of having the last word.

So being the more mature one, I put some much-needed distance between us. Fiddling with my smart watch as I do, tapping away at the screen until I have one hour keyed up on it.

I hit the start button.

“Your one hour starts now,” I tell Nate.

I don’t know if he hears me. He’s too busy scrutinizing said wreath, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious with it being crooked or if it was just something I said to mess with him.

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