Page 4 of The Mountain Man's Curvy Christmas Treat
We eat cookies in comfortable silence while the wind picks up outside. I should be annoyed by this disruption to my routine. I should be counting the hours until I can get her back to town and return to my solitude.
Instead, I find myself watching the way she savors each bite, the way she hums little snatches of Christmas carols between cookies, the way my cabin suddenly feels warmer with her in it.
"So," she says eventually, "sleeping arrangements. I'm guessing you don't have a guest room?"
"Just the one bed." The words come out rougher than I intend, and her cheeks pink up again.
"Right. Well, I can take the couch. I'm not very tall, so I should fit fine."
I look at my couch, then at her. She'd fit, but barely, and she'd be uncomfortable all night.
"I'll take the couch."
"Don't be silly. This is your home. I'm the uninvited guest."
"You're notuninvited. And I'm too big for the couch anyway."
We stare at each other for a moment, some kind of standoff that neither of us wants to back down from.
"We could share," she says quietly. "I mean, if you don't mind. I'll stay on my side."
The image of Ivy in my bed, warm and soft and smelling like vanilla makes my body respond in ways it shouldn't. She's twenty-one. She's sweet and innocent and probably hasn't been with many men. She deserves better than a broken-down ex-rescue coordinator with blood on his hands.
"Fine," I hear myself say. "But I sleep on the left side."
"Deal." She stands up, brushing cookie crumbs off the flannel shirt. "Thank you, Colt. For everything. I know this isn't how you planned to spend Christmas Eve."
As I watch her disappear into the bathroom to brush her teeth with the spare toothbrush I found for her, I realize she's wrong.
This isn't how I planned to spend Christmas Eve.
It's better.
3
Ivy
Iwake to the smell of coffee and the sound of Colt moving quietly around the cabin. For a moment, I'm disoriented This isn't my tiny apartment above the flower shop in town. Then I remember: the storm, the crash, sharing a bed with the most attractive man I've ever seen.
A man who stayed rigidly on his side all night, barely moving, like he was afraid to accidentally touch me.
Gray light filters through the windows. It’s Christmas morning, still snowing steadily. I stretch and pad to the main room in Colt's oversized clothes, my bare feet silent on the cold wooden floor.
He's standing at the window with his back to me, coffee mug in hand, watching the snow fall. His dark hair is mussed from sleep, and he's wearing jeans and a thermal shirt that clings to his broad shoulders.
"Good morning," I say softly.
He turns, and my breath catches. There's something different about him in the morning light. He seems softer, maybe, like sleep has eased some of the tension he carries.
"Storm's not letting up," he says, nodding toward the window. "We're definitely stuck through Christmas."
I move to stand beside him, and the world outside looks like a snow globe with everything pristine white and magical.
"It's beautiful," I breathe, unconsciously moving closer to him. "Like we're in our own little world."
"Dangerous," he corrects, but his voice lacks its usual gruff edge.
"Can't it be both?" I look up at him, noting the way his steel-gray eyes soften when he looks down at me. "Beautiful and dangerous?"
