Page 4 of The Christmas You Crash

RYDER

What in the fresh hell is happening?

My injured hand throbs beneath my glove after blocking that damned wine bottle from hitting my face, my jaw aches from where that little naked home invader hit me with a wineglass, and my stupid dick is hard from the sight of those perfect pink nipples and her smooth, curvy body.

Focus, Ryder.

Using my left hand, I pound on the door she’s slammed shut between us after trying the knob and realizing she’s locked herself in. This is not how I thought this trip would go.

“Hey. Come out here, right now.”

There’s a brittle bark of laughter on the other side of the door. “No fucking way.”

“I’ll have to call the cops, then,” I tell her. If she won’t leave on her own, I won’t have another choice. This is Coach Cross’s cabin, and he made me responsible for it. I can’t let him down.

“You’recalling the cops?” she screeches. There’s rustling on the other side of the door as she moves around the room. “I’mcalling the cops! You’re the one breaking and entering, asshole. You think I’m going to fall for your shit? You’ve probably got a garrote gripped and ready in those murder-glove-covered hands of yours. I won’t be strangled while I’m wet and naked and end up the subject of a true crime podcast. They’ll title it something awful, likeHot Tub HorrorsorHo-Ho-Homicide. Not today, Satan. Not. To. Day.”

It takes me a moment to compute what she’s said. Garrotes? Murder gloves?Ho-Ho-Homicide? Wait. “What do you mean,I’mthe one breaking and entering? I’m supposed to be here. I have a key.”

And that’s when the crazy, naked woman cries, “Oh my god. Did you murder my dad?” She’s screeching now, her voice rising higher and higher in pitch with every new word she speaks. “Did someone hire you to kill my whole family? What, did his stupid hockey team make your mob boss lose some money on a bet or something? Because I haven’t spoken more than a few words to my father in months!”

Oh. Shit.

I go completely still as my mind puts all the pieces together, and I ask a question I’m not sure I want to know the answer to. Because if this woman is who I think she is, then I just saw my coach’s daughter completely buck-ass naked. “What’s your name?”

“Shouldn’t you know that already if you’ve been hired to kill me?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I inhale deeply, hoping it will bring patience to my tone that I’m not feeling. “No one hired me to kill you. Jesus. I think this is all one big misunderstanding. Why would you think this is about your dad?”

She scoffs, and I can picture her rolling her eyes behind the door. “Because this is our family’s cabin, and he’s the only one who’s used it in the last year.”

Fuck. I let my head fall forward and bang on the door. The woman shrieks and I sigh. “I’m not going to hurt you. You can open the door.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re not going to hurt me,” she parrots. She’s fiery—I’ll give her that—but I don’t miss the waver in her voice. She’s also terrified. “I totally trust you now that you’ve said that. Let me just open the door so you can garrote me.”

“What in the hell is with you and garroting?”

“What? It’s a very common tool used by hitmen and mobsters. I’ve listened to like three separate true crime podcasts this month where that’s how the victim died.” Her voice is reedy and high-pitched, and I can hear her breathing rapidly, even through the door. I need to reassure her she’s not in danger before she ends up hyperventilating and passes out.

Keeping my voice low and soothing, I say, “My name is Ryder Hanson. I’m a defenseman on the Minnesota Rogues. I’m here because Coach Cross banished me to the boonies, so I’d stop trying to pick fights with my former best friend on the Chicago Blizzard, who almost ended my hockey career.” I pause, and when she doesn’t respond, I add, “I’m not a hitman or a mafia guy.”

The woman behind the door is so silent, I wonder for a moment if she’s climbed out a window or something. But she finally speaks again, and this time, her voice sounds almost pained. “My dad is your coach?”

“Is your dad Arthur Cross?”

There’s a pause, and then a quiet, “Yes.”

“Then, yeah, he’s my coach. What’s your name?”

There’s a rustling behind the door before it cracks open to reveal wide green eyes the color of emeralds, long, wet, golden-blonde hair, and full, pursed lips. She’s dressed now in an oversized hoodie emblazoned with a college logo and black leggings that hug every inch of her toned legs. She’s stunning.

“Lexi.” She tucks a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “Lexi Cross.”

I take a step back as she cracks the door open a little wider, not wanting to crowd her and make her feel uncomfortable or scared. I’m a hell of a lot bigger than she is. She’s probably all of five-foot-six. Rubbing my uninjured hand across the back of my neck, I meet her guarded gaze. “Mind telling me what you’redoing here, Lexi? Because I doubt very much that Coach would have banished me to this cabin if he knew you’d be here too.”

“No,” she agrees. “Probably not. Come on, I need some hot chocolate to warm up.” She pads past me, the slipper socks she’s wearingsnickingacross the floor like whispers. “Want some?”

“Sure,” I reply. Hopefully, she’s also got some Bailey’s we can splash in there, because after the last ten minutes, I need a drink.

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