Page 28 of Mistletoed with the Mountain Man
We stay like that, wrapped in each other, his fingers caressing me with feather-light touches, making my skin erupt in goosebumps.
The decorated cabin glows around us with twinkling lights, as the blizzard rages outside.
But I've never felt warmer.
"This…changes things," Kade says finally.
I press my face against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "I know."
But neither of us mentions that I’m nearly done decorating and that his family arrives soon. Or that he lives in Colorado and I live here.
For now, we just hold each other, basking in the afterglow.
CHAPTER 6
KADE
The cabin looks amazing.
I stand in the great room, coffee mug in hand, watching as the morning light catches on every carefully placed ornament, every strand of garland, every twinkling light. The trees are magnificent—the great room's nine-footer with its joyful chaos of color and sparkle, the loft's elegant silver and white display visible from here through the railing above.
It's exactly what I wanted for Sadie and the family.
Warm. Magical. A Christmas worth remembering.
But my thoughts keep coming back to the woman currently humming ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ in the kitchen while she makes breakfast.
Nia emerged from my bedroom an hour ago wearing one of my flannel shirts and nothing else, her hair a wild mess of tangles, her lips still swollen from last night's kisses. She'd given me a sleepy smile that made my whole body ache, then announced she was making pancakes because "champions need fuel."
"Champions of what?" I'd asked.
"Squirrel wrangling, obviously.” She’d winked. “Among other things…” Then she'd kissed my jaw and headed for the kitchen, and I'd stood there like an idiot, completely gone for this woman.
Yesterday, after we had defiled most of the rooms in the cabin, making love like two wild animals, we spent the day putting the cabin back in order—rehanging the ornaments the squirrel knocked loose, adjusting garlands, ribbons, and lights, making sure every detail was just right.
By evening, the place was immaculate. Magazine-worthy. A Christmas wonderland.
We had enjoyed a light dinner and she stayed over.
The blizzard raged all night, leaving us snowed in and wrapped up in each other. We'd barely slept. Every time I thought we were done, she'd touch me or say my name in that breathy way, and I'd need her all over again.
I should feel guilty. Should be second-guessing this entire situation.
Instead, I feel settled in a way I haven't in years.
"Pancakes are ready!" Nia calls. "And I foundrealmaple syrup in your fancy pantry. None of that corn syrup garbage."
"Only the best," I say, joining her in the kitchen.
She's plated them up—fluffy stacks with butter melting on top, fresh berries on the side. It looks wonderful.
"When did you learn to cook?" I ask, sliding onto a barstool.
"Dad taught me." She sits beside me, close enough that our thighs touch. "He said everyone should know how to make a proper breakfast. It's the most important meal of the day."
There's no sadness in her voice this time when she mentions him. Just warmth.
"He was right." I take a bite and groan. "These are delicious."
