Page 7 of Noel with the Mountain Man
"Because we're stuck together, and I'd rather know the person I'm sharing a bed with." I curl my legs under me. "I'll go first. I'm a kindergarten teacher. I love my job even though it pays terribly and I come home covered in glitter most days. I wanted kids of my own, but Trevor didn't, and I kept thinking maybe he'd change his mind, and..." I trail off. "Anyway. Your turn."
Kyler is quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. Then he says, "I'm a carpenter. I build furniture. Custom pieces, mostly."
"That's perfect for you."
"Why?"
"You've got that whole 'strong silent craftsman' thing going on." I grin. "Do you have a workshop with sawdust and dramatic lighting?"
His mouth twitches. "Something like that."
"What else?"
"I used to celebrate Christmas." The words come out flat. "I don't anymore."
The shift in tone is immediate. I set down my coffee. "What happened?"
"My fiancée died. Two years ago. Car accident, two days before Christmas."
Oh.
Oh.
"Kyler, I'm so sorry—"
"It's fine." But the way he says it makes it clear it's not fine. Will probably never be fine. "I came here to avoid all the holiday bullshit. The pitying looks. The 'you should start dating again' speeches." He looks at me. "And instead I got you."
"The universe has a sick sense of humor," I say softly.
"Yeah."
We sit in silence for a moment. The fire crackles. Outside, the storm continues its assault.
"For what it's worth," I say finally, "I'm glad I'm stuck with you and not some actual serial killer."
That earns me a huff that might be a laugh. "High praise."
"I mean it. You're..." I search for the right word. "Safe."
Something flickers in his eyes. "Am I?"
The way he asks it makes my pulse spike. Because suddenly the air between us feels charged again, heavy with all the things we're not saying.
I should make a joke. Lighten the mood. Go back to my side of the cabin.
Instead, I say, "Are you?"
He stands abruptly, crossing to where I'm sitting on the couch. My heart hammers as he stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
And then he's cupping my face with both hands, tilting my chin up, and his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is...Jesus. It's everything. Fierce and gentle at once, desperate and controlled, like he's been holding back for hours—or maybe years—and finally snapped.
I make a sound against his lips, and he groans in response, deepening the kiss. His hands slide into my hair. Mine fist in his shirt. The world narrows to justthis.His mouth. His hands. The solid wall of his chest as I pull him closer.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"We shouldn't—" he starts.
