Outside, the cold slaps me awake. Good. I need it. I need the bite of wind, the burn in my lungs, the simple task of splitting wood and hauling it inside. Things like that make sense to me. Things that don't involve curvy women in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, smelling like vanilla, and making my cabin feel all homey and shit.
I stack too much wood and carry more than I need. Anything to buy time before I go back inside and face whatever the hell is happening in there.
Twenty minutes later, I shoulder through the door with an armload of split logs. Snow dusts my beard and melts on my neck. I kick the door shut and the wood drops by the stove with a clatter.
"It's building fast out there," I say, shaking snow from my hair.
"Sounds miserable. Good thing you have excellent taste in baking supplies." She holds up the vanilla tin again, grinning. "Thanks for sharing your stash."
"Don't waste it,” I grumble, knowing I’m a miserable prick, but I’m unable to help it.
"Never." She licks batter from her knuckle, and my eyes lock on her mouth before I can stop them.
Desire hits me in my gut—and it’s unwelcome, unwanted, yet undeniable.
I look away fast, focusing on the woodpile like it’s mission critical. "Put a tray under the oven. It runs hot."
"See? You're a secret baker."
I screw up my face. "I'm not a baker."
But there's no heat to my words, and she knows it. Her smile says she's already figured me out, and that's dangerous. People who see through your defenses are the ones who hurt you worst.
While the first batch cooks, she whisks frosting in a metal bowl. The sound fills the cabin—domestic, normal, everything I told myself I didn't want.
Bear inches closer to her, nose twitching.
"Don't even think about it. You'll vibrate clean out of your skin." She laughs, fond and easy, like she's known him for years instead of hours.
"He's used to waiting," I say.
"Bless him."
She shivers, and my gaze flicks over her before I can stop it—she’s changed back into that short little Santa costume from yesterday, and it’s riding up her thighs, exposing her bare legs, leaving goose bumps on her skin. I snap my eyes back up fast enough to give myself whiplash.
"You're underdressed."
She huffs. "It’s all I have.”
I take a breath and force myself to count to ten. If I keep looking at her like this, she's going to notice, and if she notices, things will get complicated. "You can wear that sweater you got me if you’re cold.”
Her face lights up. "Thank you."
It's just a sweater, but I can’t help feeling a tinge of something soft and mushy at making her happy.
Fuck’s sake.
The oven timer dings. She pulls out a tray of golden cookies, and the smell hits me—cinnamon, butter, and sugar. Memories I've spent three years trying to bury.
Beth at twelve years old, flour in her hair, laughing at her lopsided turnovers.
My sister handing me a beer, saying, "She looks up to you, you know."
The phone call from overseas—the one that changed everything.
I close my eyes briefly, forcing the memories back down where they belong. When I open them, Cookie's watching me with an expression I can't read.
“Wanna help?” she asks, and I rise to my feet without speaking.
