Page 44 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“I don’t,” he says, “but I’m not going to use it as an opportunity to corner you into it. If you want to skinny-dip with me, Kennedy, then you’re the one who’s going to get in that water. I’m not throwing you in.”

It’s half challenge, half vow, and he’s peering at me in the dark house with an intensity that makes me wet. I can’t remember the last time anyone ever affected me like this—with just a glance. No, that’s a lie, I’ve only ever felt this kind of attraction with my ex, Brandon. So I know just how dangerous it can be. Still, instead of arcing away from him like he’s a flame that might burn me, I take a step toward him.

“Okay. But what are you waiting for? I was promised a pool.”

“What Princess wants, Princess gets,” he says.

I don’t quite like the words. It’s reminiscent of the way he acted toward me the night we met, after he zipped up my dress, but I don’t call him on it. I just follow, feeling the warmth of his big body, remembering the way his lips felt against mine, his scruff. I shouldn’t want more, but what harm would it do?

He’s certainly not looking for a relationship, at least not with someone like me, and I’ve already decided that I can’t see myself with any of the guys on the show. They’re not here for romance anyway. If they were, they wouldn’t always be so concerned about the presence—or lack thereof—of cameras. I won’t be breaking any hearts if I let Harry choose the “winner” and only act sweet to him on tape.

I follow Rowan to a lush carpet, then into a back hallway that’s not nearly so nice. It’s quiet back here, almost oppressively so, and I hear every one of Rowan’s soft steps—and every one of my own, although I’ll be the first to admit that I’m less gracefulthan the man in front of me. How did a big man get so soft on his feet?

“You don’t hunt, do you?” I ask in sudden horror.

His laugh rumbles through me. “No, Kennedy. Not every bearded mountain man is a hunter.”

“I wasn’t stereotyping you,” I say, feeling a touch of righteous indignation. “Though you certainly like to stereotypeme. It’s just…you’re really light on your feet. I wondered if you learned that from hunting.”

He stops and turns toward me, contrition and something else in his eyes. “You’re right. Do you want me to stop calling you Princess?

“No,” I admit. “I kind of like it.”

He laughs, then rubs his chin. “I’m light on my feet because my grandmother didn’t like noise,” he says. “All of us kids are, except for my sister Holly, who got louder because she doesn’t like it when people tell her what to do. And Ivy, I guess, because she didn’t have to spend much time at our grandmother’s place. The rest of us got left there a lot. Like I said, my mother’s not much of one.”

Sympathy grips at me, but he’s already shaking his head slightly.

“Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not a dick because I had shitty parents. That part came naturally.”

Still, I reach out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry all the same. I wasn’t allowed to run around either. Kids should be allowed to be kids, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” he says, but he’s clearly eager to drop the subject because he turns and keeps walking until he reaches a door. Opening it, he reveals the back staircase. It’s dark, with only a faint glow coming from the bottom, presumably from some sort of nightlight. It provides enough illumination for me to seethe enormous spiderweb waving in the top right corner of the doorway.

I squeal.

“Seems to be a theme of our day,” Rowan says lightly, but his expression darkens, suggesting he’s thinking of the other part of his day. I wonder if I should encourage him to leave, to go to his stepfather and his sisters, but for all I know, he’s not allowed to stay over at the hospital anyway. He’s not a blood relative, or even a legal relative anymore, whatever the heart might have to say about it.

Not your place, whispers a voice in my head. Besides, if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t want him to leave. I want this moment with him—this distraction for both of us.Later, I decide.I’ll tell him later.

Rowan grabs one of the towels and uses it to brush away the spiderweb.

“That’s your towel,” I say.

His smile is barely illuminated in the blackness. “We already established that I might be the only one going in.”

But we’re both going in. He knows it. I know it.

He leads the way down the stairs, and when I close the door behind me, he illuminates the path forward with his phone, which makes the whole undertaking less intimidating. Through another few corridors, we finally reach a closed door labeled “pool room,” as if the people who live here need it to identify where to go.

“Ready?” he asks me, his brows winging up.

“Ready,” I confirm.

He opens the door and flicks on the lights. I step inside, shutting the door behind me, only to find a pool that’s been drained down to the concrete.

“Well, that’s anticlimactic,” he says.

I’d laugh, but the sinking feeling inside me tells me just how much I wanted to see Rowan Mayberry swim naked.

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