He blinks.
“You’re mywhat?”
“Bride. Sort of. Mail-order. It’s not legally binding or anything.” I gesture vaguely to my oversized tote. “I come bearing ornaments.”
He doesn’t move. Just glares.
“You answered my ad?” he growls.
“Technically. It was part of a reality show application. Think HGTV meets Bachelor in the Boondocks.”
Nothing.
“I’m Noel Hart,” I try again, stepping forward, hand extended. “Interior designer. Reality show finalist. Here to turn this cozy—” I look around at the cabin’s violently beige aesthetic, “—potential-filled rustic hellscape into a holiday fantasy.”
His eyes narrow. “You broke into my house.”
“Your bartender said the key was under the gnome.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his beard. “Rick’s a dead man.”
“Not if I win,” I chirp. “There’s a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar cash prize for best decorated holiday cabin. I keep half. You get the other half. I leave. You never see me again. I tried to call first but the call kept going to voicemail. Didn’t you check your messages?”
“Not if I can help it.” He crosses his arms.
Which just flexes his chest.
Which, frankly, feels like a personal attack.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.” He stalks past me to the fireplace, snatches a flannel shirt off the arm of a chair, and shrugs it on—but doesn’t button it. Just lets it hang open like he’s allergic to modesty. “I didn’t agree to a damn thing. You’re not staying here.”
“Kind of late for that. Snow’s coming down like a cocaine Christmas outside. No one’s getting back down the mountain tonight.”
“Then you’ll sleep in your car.”
“I drive a Prius.”
“Then you’ll freeze in your car.”
I blink. “Wow. You reallyarethe Grinch.”
He grabs a log from the basket and tosses it onto the fire like it personally insulted him. “I don’t do guests. I don’t do cameras. And I sure as hell don’t do mistletoe.”
I toss my coat over the banister and march past him toward the fireplace, pulling out a roll of garland from my bag like I’m about to go to war. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t have todoanything except stay out of my way and cash a check when this is over.”
He watches me kneel in front of the mantel, garland in hand, eyes dark and unreadable.
“You think you’re just gonna roll in here and turn my place into a damn catalog page?”
“Yes.”
He stalks forward. Slowly. Steps measured. Deliberate.
“Put the garland down.”
