Page 5 of Noel with the Mountain Man
“Coming here.”
Her hand slides over mine beneath the blankets, fingers brushing lightly, hesitantly. “Maybe it still can be.”
I don’t answer. Because right now, with her tucked against me and the snow burying the world outside,simplefeels like the last thing this is going to be.
Chapter 3
Noel
Iwakeupwrappedaround him like a vine.
My leg is thrown over his thigh. My hand is splayed across his chest. My face is buried in the crook of his neck, and oh God, I can feel his heartbeat against my cheek. The air beyond our blanket cocoon is still icy, but inside it’s a pocket of heat—body warmth and the faint, lingering breath of the fire below.
This isnotstaying on my side of the bed.
I should move. I shoulddefinitelymove.
Except he's sowarm, and the air outside our blanket cocoon is arctic, and his arm is heavy across my waist in a way that feels less like an accident and more like an anchor.
I hold very still, trying to figure out how to extract myself without waking him.
"You're awake," he says, his voice rough with sleep.
Abort mission.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I didn't mean to… I must have moved in my sleep."
"It's fine." But he doesn't let go. If anything, his arm tightens slightly. "You were cold. I added another log to the fire sometime in the night."
"Right. Cold. Body heat. Very practical."
"Very practical," he agrees, and there's something in his voice—a dark thread of amusement—that makes my stomach flip.
I should pull away. This is weird, right? We're strangers who met approximately twelve hours ago. Strangers who are currently tangled together like we do this every morning.
But I don't move.
Neither does he.
"The storm's still going," he says after a moment.
I listen. He's right. Wind batters the windows. Snow hisses against the glass.
We're not going anywhere today.
"Guess we're stuck with each other a little longer," I say.
"Guess so."
His thumb traces a slow circle on my hip—absent, automatic, like he doesn't realize he's doing it. But I realize. Oh, Ivery muchrealize. That tiny motion sends heat spiraling through me that has nothing to do with blankets.
I need to get up. Need space. Need to remember that I came here to get over a breakup, not to fall into bed with a mountain man who probably has a girlfriend. Or a wife. Or a very reasonable explanation for why he's spending Christmas alone in a cabin and doesn't want company.
"Do you—" I start, then stop.
"Do I what?"
"Have someone? Like, someone who's going to be mad you spent the night with a stranger?"
