Page 8 of Her Mountain Christmas
“You’re welcome.” She brushes past me, glancing back on the stairs, her eyes sweeping over me. Her shirt—my shirt—slips down, exposing her shoulder. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
“Night,” she says, little ass wiggling as she heads up the stairs. I clench my teeth together so hard I’m on the verge of cracking a molar. But I don’t move. Not until I hear the snick of her door shutting behind her.
“Fucking hell,” I whisper to the silent kitchen.
Four
Ella
When I blink my eyes open the next morning, it takes me a minute to remember where I am. I’m in a strange bed, wearing a strange shirt, in a room I don’t recognize. And then in the space of another blink, it all comes back to me. The party. My parents trying to sell me off to the revolting Bradford. Driving in the snow. Crashing my car.
Jack.
I roll over in bed as butterflies erupt in my stomach at the thought of my delicious rescuer. When I first saw him through the window, I thought I was hallucinating. That I’d hit my head and had conjured up the image of the sexiest, most mouthwatering man on the planet. He’s got to be at least 6’5. He’s huge, with these massive broad shoulders and big arms, thick with muscle. I’m not sure how old he is. Maybe 40ish? Old enough to be ridiculously hot, anyway, especially compared to guys my age. His hands are big and rough, not soft and delicate. And he’s got this hair. It’s thick and wavy, short on the sides and a bit longer on top. There’s a bit of gray at his temples,but otherwise, it’s a rich, dark brown, shot through with reddish gold.
And his eyes. They’re this warm brown with flecks of gold, with these little smile lines that fan out around them when he smiles. He’s clean shaven, with a jaw that looks like it was chiseled from granite. Full lips, perfect teeth, perfect smile. Perfect everything.
He’s beautiful.
I want him. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted a man. Which is why I practically shoved my pussy in his face last night, just to see what would happen. It was worth it to watch his jaw bunch and flex, to see his eyes go molten and his nostrils flare.
There are sparks between us, and even though I’m the definition of inexperienced, I’m pretty sure Jack feels them, too.
And more than that, I trust him, even though he’s practically a stranger. I can’t explain it. But there’s something about fire chief Jack that just feels so intrinsically right that I wouldn’t dare question it.
I sit up slowly in bed, taking stock of my body. My upper back is a bit stiff, my low back a bit sore, but other than that, I’m okay. Honestly, I’m lucky to be in one piece. Lucky Jack came along when he did.
Funny how I ended the worst day of my life feeling lucky.
I stretch carefully, and when I breathe in, I can smell bacon and coffee. My stomach rumbles—I never did get anything much to eat at the party—and I swing my legs out of bed, padding to the window. I open the plaid-printed curtains and suck in a small, surprised gasp.
White. In the distance, I can see the very tops of the mountains, but everything else is white, with snow swirling in every direction. A gust of wind sends flakes pelting against the window pane, and I take a minute to let my eyes adjust to the stark brightness.
I’m trapped here, and yet I’ve never felt more free.
I look around for the pair of socks Jack left me and pull them on over my cold feet, giggling when they come up to my knees, and then step out of the room.
Jack’s house is cozy and warm, with hardwood floors, beamed ceilings, big windows, and stone finishes. It’s lived in and homey, with slightly worn furniture, framed photos and knickknacks as decor, and the air smells like real food and firewood. It’s the complete opposite of my parents’ house, with the marble floors, hushed silences, vaguely floral air and cold…everything.
It’s pure insanity that I feel more at home here than I ever have in the museum-like mansion I grew up in. I don’t know what to make of that feeling, but I know I like it. I like Jack. I like his voice and his smile and the way he looks at me. I like the way lines dig in across his forehead when he’s worried about me. I like the way he made me tea. I like his truck. I like his house. I like how big he is. I like his muscles.
And more than anything, I like how I feel here. Safe. Sheltered. Cared for.
I pad down the stairs, the wood creaking softly beneath my feet, and I follow my nose to the kitchen. Wham’s “Last Christmas” is playing from a speaker on the counter, and I nearly moan at the sight of Jack. He’s standing at the stove in a pair of low slung gray sweatpants and plain white t-shirt that clings to his muscled frame. I’m making a little mess in my panties watching the way his biceps pull against the thin cotton, the way his round ass fills out his sweats. He’s frying bacon and eggs with a practiced ease.
He’s so competent. So calm and in charge. So fucking hot that I might melt into a little puddle right here on the spot.
He glances over his shoulder to find me ogling him from the doorway. The corner of his perfect mouth kicks up when he sees me. “Morning, sweetheart.”
It wrecks me a little every time he calls me that. I never want him to stop. Which, I mean…how would that work? I’m not even entirely sure where Honey Ridge is, but I’m ready to pack my bags if it means a shot at Jack.
Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe I did hit my head yesterday. Because I feel all light and bubbly and I’m thinking all these crazy things.
“Morning,” I say, watching his forearms bunch and flex as he slides the bacon and eggs onto waiting plates.
His hands are so big. Big enough that he could snap me in half. Big enough that he could probably toss me right over those mountains outside. Big enough that I can’t stop thinking about how good they felt on me yesterday during his little examination.
He sets the empty frying pan down and puts our plates on the table, then shoves a hand through his hair, leaving his waves slightly disheveled.
