Chapter 2
Sebastian
Iknewshewastrouble the second our eyes met through that window.
And now she’s in my arms.
Hands braced on my chest, fingers clutching the front of my flannel like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Like her body hasn’t caught up to her brain yet.
Same as mine.
She’s soft in a way that short-circuits my self-control. Curves pressed against me like she belongs there.
Dark hair spilling over her shoulders, snow clinging to the ends. Big dark-blue eyes, still a little dazed. And that scent—vanilla, sugar, something warm I don’t have a name for—rises off her skin like a challenge.
I tell myself to let go. Put her down. Step back. Walk away.
But my grip stays firm. One hand against her back, the other resting at the curve of her hip, where her coat doesn't quite hide how good she feels.
The ice brought her down.
But this?Thispart is all me.
I ease her back onto her feet like she’s made of glass. She steps away, cheeks pink, brushing off snow that isn’t there.
"Thanks," she says. Soft but steady. "That could’ve gone worse."
Yeah.
So could a lot of things.
I nod once. Say nothing.
Then I turn and head for the inn.
Because that’s what I do. Keep my head down. Mind my business.
Especially when the woman in question looks like the answer to every damn thing I don’t have time to want.
Christmas is less than a week away. I’ve got guests checking in, two furnaces that won’t cooperate, and a father who thinks ignoring his cardiologist is some kind of Olympic sport.
And now this. The bakery girl.
I glance back once before opening the inn’s front door. She’s still standing in the snow, watching me leave like she can’t decide if I’m the villain in her story or not.
Trust me, sweetheart. I’m not your hero.
I’m the man who fixes what’s broken, carries the weight, and keeps the damn place running while the rest of the town plays carols and eats pie.
What I’m not issoft.
But the way she looked at me. The way she felt in my arms.
Yeah.That’s gonna be a problem.
Small-town winter mornings are not for the weak. The snow’s coming down harder by the time I finish salting the front steps.
I can feel it in my bones. The pressure shift. The colder bite in the air. I grew up in these mountains. My body knows the weather better than any forecast.
