Page 4 of Noel with the Mountain Man
“Could be all night.” I glance toward the window again, then at her. “You should get warm clothes on. Layers, socks, whatever you’ve got.”
She nods and disappears up the stairs. When she comes back, her hair’s loose around her shoulders, and she’s wearing flannel pajama pants patterned with candy canes. The sight shouldn’t hit me like it does.
“It’s freezing up there,” she says, shivering as she descends the steps. “I could see my breath.”
“Then stay down here, closer to the fire.”
She nods, wrapping a blanket around herself like a cocoon. Her teeth chatter once, barely audible.
I should focus on the fire. On the weather. On anything but the way she looks in the firelight—soft and flushed, the color back in her cheeks. But when she curls her legs under her on the rug, too close to the flames, I move without thinking.
“You’ll burn yourself,” I say, crouching beside her. “Here.” I tug her gently backward until she’s sitting near me instead of on top of the hearth.
Her eyes meet mine. “Bossy.”
“Practical.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “Feels like the temperature’s dropping another ten degrees every time you say that word.”
She’s right. The chill is creeping in fast. The fire throws light but not much heat anymore.
I grab another armload of blankets from the basket near the stairs. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Upstairs. The bed’s bigger. Easier to stay warm together.”
Her brows shoot up. “Together?”
“Unless you want to wake up a popsicle.”
She hesitates for just a second, then exhales. “Fine. But if you start snoring, I’m rolling you onto the floor.”
“Deal.”
We carry the blankets up to the loft. The room’s frigid enough that I can see her breath puff white in the dim light. The bed is massive, built of thick wood beams and covered in a mountain of quilts. I pile the extra blankets on top until it looks like a fortress.
She climbs in on one side. I slide in on the other. The mattress creaks under our combined weight, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then she shivers. Hard.
“Come here,” I murmur.
She hesitates again—just a breath, just a heartbeat—and then shifts across the space between us. I pull her close, her back fitting against my chest, her cold toes brushing my leg.
“Better?” I ask.
“…Yeah.”
Her voice is sleepy and small. I can feel her breathing start to match mine, her body slowly thawing against me. Her hair smells like something warm and sweet, like vanilla and cinnamon.
For the first time in two years, I don’t feel like I’m freezing from the inside out.
Outside, the storm howls against the cabin, but inside, there’s just the slow rhythm of her breath and the steady pulse of her heartbeat against my chest.
“This was supposed to be simple,” I whisper to myself.
She stirs slightly. “What was?”
