Another long stare-down. His eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate. He’s calculating. Weighing options. Probably considering if he can chop firewood while I’m here without murdering me with an axe on accident.
I fold my arms across my chest, trying not to show how fast my heart is hammering. Not from fear. From proximity. From the way this man looks at me like I’m a category five migraine with good legs.
He crosses the room in two strides. Stops close. Too close.
“You really gonna decorate this place? With... glitter and shit?”
“Twinkle lights. Wreaths. A fake snow machine, if I can get the generator to handle it.”
“You think I’m letting a woman in combat boots and lip gloss turn my cabin into a damn Macy’s window display?”
“Actually,” I murmur, leaning up on my toes, “I think you’re going to love it.”
His nostrils flare. I can feel the heat rolling off him, a furnace of irritation and something darker. Something that hums between us like a live wire.
He glares.
I grin.
By the time I’ve unloaded the rest of my props and gear, the cabin looks a little more like a tornado blew through Hobby Lobby. I unpack fake snow blankets, a 4-foot pre-lit tree, strings of multicolored lights, ribbon, and about six hundred glittery ornaments.
Nash watches from the doorway with his arms crossed like he’s about to call the cops.
I hang a “Merry & Bright” banner over the window.
“Take that down,” he growls.
I flip a switch and the sign lights up in pink and gold.
He hisses like I’ve sprayed holy water on a vampire.
“This is a cabin,” he says. “Not a strip mall.”
“This isart,” I shoot back. “Also, this ismoney.Two hundred fifty thousand dollars, remember?”
He stalks past me, grabs a strand of garland, and shoves it back in the bin.
I shove it back out.
“You don’t win by subtraction,” I say sweetly. “I needimpact.Flair.Festivity.”
“I need a drink.”
He grabs a bottle of whiskey from the counter, swigs straight from the neck.
I raise an eyebrow. “Do you also growl at Girl Scouts?”
“No, but if they came in here taping mistletoe to my rafters, we’d have a problem.”
I hold up a sprig and aim it at the beam above his head. “Oh, so thisisn’ta problem yet?”
He doesn’t blink.
I climb the step stool and staple the mistletoe in place, high above his head, then look down at him with what I hope is an innocent smile.
“You know the rules,” I say.
He tilts his head. “What rules?”
