“You always hover this long in doorways?” he finally mutters, voice low, the gravel in it warmer than the cocoa in my hands.
I raise a brow. “Only when I’m deciding whether to cross a line.”
“You’re halfway through the door. You already crossed it.”
God. His voice should be illegal. Like limes and tequila, it lingers too long and goes straight to my head.
“I thought you were allergic to mistletoe.” I gesture up, pretending my heart isn’t doing somersaults in my chest.
He shrugs, stepping closer. He smells like cedar and smoke and the kind of man you want to ruin your plans. “Figured it was only fair.”
I don’t move. I can’t. Not with him in front of me like this. All flannel and feral heat. His gaze flicks from my eyes to my lips, slow and unapologetic. It’s not just attraction in his stare—it’s curiosity. Challenge.
I wet my lips. Mistake. His jaw tightens.
“Mistletoe rules are pretty clear, you know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He lifts a brow. “You want rules now?”
My pulse slams in my throat. “You going to kiss me or glare at me until I melt?”
He smirks. “Thought you liked your men grumpy.”
“And shirtless,” I add. “But that’s negotiable.”
He moves closer—just a breath. Just enough that I can see the flecks of amber in his irises, the scratch of beard shadow across his cheek. His gaze holds mine, heavy and patient, as if he's giving me time to run. Or lean in.
The snow starts falling harder, fat flakes catching in his hair, clinging to his flannel collar.
“You should’ve told me you were coming,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.
“I tried. You don’t answer your phone. Anyway, you would’ve told me not to.”
“Damn right I would’ve.”
“And yet…” I tip my chin up, bold even though my knees are made of jelly. “Here you are. Hanging mistletoe. Keeping me warm. Decorating cookies like it’s your calling.”
“Don’t forget saving you from the Phantom River ice concert.”
“That too.” I smirk. “You’re practically a Christmas miracle, Hollis.”
He exhales a quiet laugh. “You make everything chaos.”
“And you make everything… impossible not to want.”
That does it. His eyes flash, and suddenly, the air between us isn’t air anymore. It’s heat and tension and the invisible thread that’s been tightening between us since I first walked into his cabin and saw him in nothing but a towel.
His hand comes up, brushes snow from my cheek. Rough fingers. Gentle touch.
I lean into it before I realize I’m doing it.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
I swallow. “Say what?”
“That you want this.”
I blink up at him, vulnerable and reckless and more exposed than I’ve ever been in my life. “I want this.”
