Page 12 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

"Sure thing, Hank," Holt replies, voice butter wouldn't melt. But his eyes dance with mischief.

Hank grunts, a deep sound that seems to echo off the log cabin walls. He turns without another word, retreating to the refuge of his room, each step deliberate, like he's stamping his authority into the wooden floorboards.

The latch clicks. Hank's door shuts. Holt and I lock eyes, and immediately launch into a game of rock-paper-scissors.

Holt throws rock. I throw paper.

“Ha!” I grin, smug as hell. “Dibs.”

Holt scowls, shaking out his hand like that’ll change the outcome. “Best two out of three.”

I arch a brow. “You don’t get second chances in the wild, brother.”

He snorts. “This ain’t the wild. It’s Hank’s cozy little rescue mission, featuring one very out-of-place ski bunny. Come on, best two out of three.”

“Fine.”

"One, two, three, shoot!"

We pump our fists in unison—rock, paper, scissors. Scissors cut paper. Damn. We're even.

"Last round." Holt's grin tells me he's enjoying this too much.

"Make it count," I warn, trying to read his next move from the twinkle in his eye.

"One, two, three, shoot!"

Two rocks stare each other down. A stalemate.

"Again." We reset swiftly, tension tightening in the room.

"One, two, three, shoot!"

Another draw—scissors to scissors.

Holt huffs out a breath, shaking his head. "At this rate, we’ll be at it all night."

I cross my arms, lips twitching. "Only fair we call it."

He narrows his eyes, considering. Then he nods. "Agreed. No dibs. We both get a shot."

I smirk, extending my hand. "May the best man win."

Holt clasps my hand in a firm shake, his grip full of competitive energy. "Oh, I plan to."

We release, both grinning like idiots. The game’s officially on.

Chapter 6

Ivy

The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I step out of the guest room, now dressed in warmer clothes—form-fitting leggings, a soft oversized sweater, and thick socks. I barely make it two steps before a deep voice rumbles from the other side of the room.

“Well, well. Looks like the ski bunny finally shed her fur.”

I stop short, eyes snapping to the speaker. It’s the lumberjack from earlier—the one I saw splitting wood with an axe like he’s straight out of a survivalist fantasy. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, grinning like he’s thoroughly amused.

I bristle. He’s making fun of me.

---