Chips fly. Sweat maps his back. Muscles bunch, release. Jaw clean enough to call pretty, edges sharp enough to deny it.
Tingles erupt all over my skin. My fingers move before my brain catches up. I grab my phone, ease the blind higher, hit record. Ten seconds. The caption writes itself:When your defenseman goes home for Christmas and turns into Alaska Thor.Save. Another clip, close up. Save. One more in slow-mo because I’m not a monster. Save.
He looks up mid-swing. Catches me.
The smirk comes first—lazy, lethal. He tips his chin, balances the axe one-handed, then crooks two fingers:outside.
I set my phone down and obey.
My hands shake as I drag on a sweater. This is supposed to be pretend. A business arrangement. I am not supposed to salivate over the flex of his forearms or wonder how his weight would feel crushing me into the mattress.
Stop. Breathe. Shake it off.
When I step into the kitchen, it smells of coffee, eggs, bacon, and a whisper of cedar smoke. His parents sit at the table—dad with river-strong forearms, a knit cap shoved back; mom with a neat silver bun, slicing an apple. Two boys are at the counter.
“I’m Erik.” The younger pops off his stool brightly, hand already out.
“Joy,” I say, taking it. “Sorry to crash breakfast.”
“Crash away.” His mom’s gaze sweeps me once—soft, approving. “You must be Joy. I’m Anne.”
The older boy lifts a hand. “Lars.” He stiffens, then studies the jam jar like it’s urgent.
His dad rises, grip warm and sure. “Welcome. I’m Tom.”
Before I can even move, the back door slams open. A gust of cold and six feet of smug Alaskan lumberjack blow in. Wesley crosses the kitchen in three long strides, cheeks flushed from the cold, snow still clinging to his boots.
He doesn’t stop. Finds my waist. Then my mouth.
Not polite. Not posed. A slow, deep, ruin-your-day kind of kiss that short-circuits my frontal lobe.
He tastes of coffee and cold air. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back, and I forget where we are. Forget his family is watching. Forget this is an act.
When he finally lets me breathe, I’m half draped against him, pulse sprinting and trying to set a record.
“Good morning, doll,” he murmurs against my lips, voice rough from the cold.
The endearment is warm honey down my spine.
He looks up, grin devilish. “You’ve met?” Then to the room, casual, “Everyone, Joy Preston. My fiancée.”
The word hangs there.Fiancée.His mother lights up. His dad smirks into his coffee. The older brother groans into his toast. The younger scowls. “She was gonna sit by me.”
“Tragic,” Wesley deadpans, completely unrepentant. He pulls out a chair and drops into it, dragging me onto his lap. “Find your own girl, kid.”
“House rule,” Erik grumbles. “No kissing at the table.”
“Noted,” I manage, though it comes out more breath than words. Wesley’s arm is locked around my waist, and his thumb starts tracing lazy circles on my thigh that should not, under any circumstances, feel this good.
But his hand trembles slightly and his breathing is uneven. This doesn’t feel like acting at all.
Anne sets down plates. Wesley’s is a mountain—eggs, sweet potatoes, toast. Mine’s dainty by comparison.
“My boys eat,” she says, pride in every syllable.
I tip my head until my hair grazes his jaw. “Eat up, stud.”
Wesley’s hold tightens on my thigh—rough now, the warning kind. He shifts, just enough that I feel the shape of him against my hip. Heat licks under my skin; my spine goes liquid.
