Because she’s here—all pink lips and Christmas chaos—standing in the middle of my bedroom, hands on her hips, staring at the single bed like I’m the devil himself.
“There’s only one?” she asks, voice pitching up like she’s caught between disbelief and laughter.
“One bed,” I confirm, dragging a hand through my hair. “This ain’t the Ritz.”
Her eyes dart from the bed, then back to me. “Guess I’ll take the couch then.”
“No, ma’am.” I drop my flannel over the chair and head for the fire. “You’re not sleeping on that thing. Springs’ll bite through before midnight.”
She crosses her arms, that soft sweater pulling tight across her chest. “You’re saying you’re too much of a gentleman to let me take the couch?”
I glance over my shoulder, let my gaze drag slow enough to make her squirm. “Didn’t say I was a gentleman. Said I’m not an asshole.”
She laughs, light and sharp. “I don’t know, Nash. Jury’s still out.”
“Keep talkin’, you’ll find out.”
Her lips twitch. She likes the sparring—hell, she might live for it. I poke the fire until sparks jump and lick the air, then turn back to her. She’s standing there with her hands on her suitcase, debating something behind those big eyes.
Finally, she says it. “Fine. I’ll take the bed.”
“Good choice.”
“I’m warning you,” she says, voice lilting like a dare, “I only sleep naked.”
My grip on the poker tightens. The fire hisses. She’s watching me now, waiting for a reaction, probably expecting me to stammer or blush.
Not likely.
“Then you’ll freeze,” I say, low, steady. “Cabin gets cold at night.”
Her brows lift, like she’s trying to decide if I’m serious. “You’re impossible.”
“Not wrong.” I toss her one of my old white T-shirts from the dresser. “Here. Use that before I have to start my New Year’s confessional early.”
Her mouth opens, but she catches the shirt midair. “Oh, so chivalry does exist.”
“No,” I mutter, walking past her, “self-preservation does.”
She heads to the bathroom, door closing—mostly. A small gap remains, just wide enough to test my resolve.
The light spills out across the floor, catching the edge of her legs. I see movement, the shadow of her pulling off her sweater, the curve of her hip as she tugs at her jeans. My throat locks.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
I fail for half a second.
She bends, hair sliding forward, skin pale and soft under the amber light, and for a heartbeat I forget how to breathe. My pulse hammers so loud I’m sure she hears it.
Then the light clicks off. The door opens.
And Noel Hart—chaos in boots and a heart too bright for this world—steps out wearing my shirt and nothing else.
Jesus Christ.
The hem hits high on her thighs. The neckline hangs low enough that I see the hint of skin, collarbone to cleavage. She’s a damn fever dream standing in my cabin, smiling like she doesn’t know she’s burning the place down.
“It’s comfy,” she says, tugging the hem. “Smells like pine and danger.”
