Because she’s trouble. Holiday-wrapped, sugar-dusted, cinnamon-scented trouble.
And I don’t need to get addicted to something I can’t keep. I know I listed the ad for the mail-order bride, but I’ve regretted that impulsive decision every moment since. That’s the reason I haven’t been answering phone calls or checking messages, never thought a woman would be brazen enough to show up on my doorstep like a stray dog with a curvy body built for sin.
“You should go to bed,” I say tightly. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Decorating your front porch?” she quips.
“Trying to survive me.”
She smiles like that’s exactly what she wants.
Then turns and walks away—slowly—hips swaying beneath my shirt, like she’sdaringme to follow.
I don’t.
Not tonight.
But soon.
Soon, she’s going to find out what happens when you push too hard.
And I’m going to find out if I can survive the chaos she brings.
Chapter 5
Noel
“Let me get this straight…” I say later that night as I slide a baking sheet into Nash Hollis’s ancient oven and smirk at the man currently glaring at the pile of flour on the counter like it personally offended him. “You don’t know how to make cookies?”
“I know how toeatcookies,” he mutters, arms crossed, that mountain of a chest stretching his flannel until I’m questioning the integrity of the buttons.
“You don’t say.” I lick a smear of chocolate from my finger just to watch his jaw tick.
“Baking’s not exactly a survival skill.”
“Well, good thing you’ve got me. I’ve got enough sugar to kill a horse and questionable taste in frosting colors. What could go wrong?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just narrows his eyes like he’s sizing up the enemy—which, judging by the flour now coating his beard, might be the hand mixer.
I snort.
“You know,” I say, turning toward the counter, “you couldtryto have fun.”
“I am having fun,” he deadpans.
“Right. You look absolutely thrilled.”
“You’re in my cabin. You’ve taken over my kitchen. You keep singing Mariah Carey.”
“Exactly. A Christmas miracle.”
His eyes drop to my lips when I laugh, and the air shifts—thicker, charged. The kind of silence that crackles.
I pretend I don’t notice.
Grab the bag of powdered sugar and toss it onto the counter. It explodes. White dust everywhere. All over me.
