Page 4 of Tangling with the Christmas
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I swear every muscle in my body tightens. "Until morning."
"Until morning," I confirm.
She clears her throat, sets down her mug with careful precision. "Guess I'll have to make the best of it."
"Meaning?"
She stands, crosses to where I'm standing by the stove, close enough that I can smell cinnamon on her skin. "You've got a grudge against Christmas. I've got enough holiday spirit for both of us." Her smile turns challenging. "By the time that road clears, you'll be whistling carols."
I snort, but I'm fighting another smile. "Not a chance."
"Wanna bet?"
She leans in, eyes sparkling with mischief and something darker, something that makes heat pool low in my gut. She's daring me. This slip of a woman who crashed her car in my snowbank is standing here daring me.
And damn it all if I don't already know that I've lost.
Chapter 3
Rosemary
Hismouthtwitchesinthatalmostsmile again. But there's something else in his expression too, something that makes my skin feel too tight, too warm despite the cold seeping through the walls.
I wander around the cabin, partly to explore, partly to put distance between us before I do something stupid. The space is simple but lived-in: shelves lined with old tools, their handles worn smooth by use; a row of neatly stacked firewood against the back wall; a battered leather chair by the stove, the cushion shaped to someone's weight. There's warmth here, beneath all the gruff edges—like the man himself, maybe, if I squint hard enough.
"Nice place," I say softly, trailing my fingers along a bookshelf. Survival guides, tree identification manuals, and—surprisingly—a worn copy of Thoreau. "Did you build it yourself?"
"My dad did." His voice changes—lower, rougher, like stones grinding together. "Back when this was a real farm. Fifty acres of Christmas trees, sold them all over the state." He pauses, staring out at the white world. "After he passed, I moved in. Kept the trees, let the rest go."
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate, but I don't know what else to say.
He shrugs, still not looking at me. "Not your fault. Life happens. People leave." There's a weight to those last words that makes me wonder who else left, besides his father.
Silence stretches. The fire crackles. The storm hums against the windows like a lullaby, or maybe a warning.
I crouch near the woodstove, trying to help, needing to do something with my hands. When I grab a log from the pile, it's heavier than I expect. It slips from my hands and crashes to the floor, scattering bark and making me jump.
"Careful." Rhett's beside me in two steps, moving with a grace that shouldn't be possible for someone his size. His big hands close over mine, steadying me, warm me. "You'll smash your toes."
I look up—and there he is, close.Too close.His beard's still dusted with melting snow, his shirt clinging to shoulders that look like they could probably carry this whole cabin if they had to. He smells like wood smoke and pine and winter air, and something uniquely him that makes my breath catch.
"You have, um..." I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. "Wood dust. On your face."
He huffs a quiet laugh, and I feel it more than hear it. "Wood dust?"
"Yeah." My hand moves before I can stop it, swiping at his cheek. My fingertips brush his skin—warm and rough and too much, too real. His beard is softer than I expected.
Neither of us moves. The world outside blurs into white noise—wind and snow and the distant crack of ice-heavy branches. But in here, in this small space between us, everything is sharp and clear and electric.
His hand comes up to catch my wrist, gentle but firm. His thumb finds my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast my heart's racing.
"Rosemary," he murmurs, voice like gravel and sin and every warning I should probably heed.
"Yeah?" It comes out breathier than I intended.
"If you don't step back, I'm gonna forget every reason I've got for keeping my distance."
I should step back. Should laugh this off, make a joke, put the safety of space between us. But instead I hear myself whisper, "Maybe you should."
