But resisting her feels like trying to hold back a fucking avalanche.
5
RUBY
I watchas Ivan dabs some wood glue into the holes in the window. Then he grabs a screwdriver from his tool belt, leaning over the counter to reattach the latch. I should give him space to work, but I can’t stop staring. There’s something insanely hot about watching him fix stuff. His flannel sleeves are rolled up to reveal his powerful forearms, those giant hands moving effortlessly as he screws the latch into place.
I’m officially losing my mind over a man twisting a screwdriver.
This can’t be good.
As I watch Ivan test the window, his brow furrowed in concentration, I can’t help wondering about this mysterious mountain man. What’s his story? Why does he live in the forest, isolated from the world? My brother moved to Cherry Mountain to hide from the past. Could it be the same for Ivan? Did something drive him out here? Or does he just…really like trees?
So many questions.
Ivan straightens up and turns to face me. My heart stutters, just like it does every time he fixes me with those dark green eyes.
“Done,” he says. “The glue should hold it.”
“Awesome. Thank you, Ivan.”
I smile up at him, trying to look casual. But it feels like there’s a snowstorm raging in my chest. It’s hard to think straight with this handsome giant looming over me, his head almost brushing the ceiling of the kitchen. The room feels stupidly tiny with him in it—like a giant in a dollhouse. He must be almost a foot and a half taller than I am. Heck, the top of my head barely reaches his shoulders, and I have to crook my neck to look at him.
“Anything else need doing?” he asks, that deep voice making me shiver.
Yes. Me. I need doing.
The thought burns my cheeks. I’m used to reading filthy things about book characters, not thinking them about real people. Heck, I’m still a virgin at twenty-four—not exactly the queen of seduction. But with Ivan, I can’t help but want him. Desire pools between my thighs as he looks at me, waiting for my answer. Our gaze holds for a beat too long. The walls narrow around us, and for a moment, I swear his gaze flits to my lips. If I took a single step forward, I’d be flush against him. Our bodies would press together—his hard muscles against my plump curves—those burly arms wrapping around me…
“N-no,” I finally stammer. “Thank you. That’s everything.”
Ivan nods curtly. He follows me back into the living room, where North is sniffing around the furniture.
“We’d better get going,” he says.
But as he reaches for the door, I know I’m not ready for him to go. Now that he’s fixed the window, I’m all out of excuses for him to come over. This could be the last time I see him before I go back to Miami.
“Hey,” I say a little too brightly, “maybe you should warm yourselves up a little before you go back out there. I know the cookies are a no-go, but at least let me make you some hot chocolate.”
Ivan nods slowly. It’s impossible to tell if he’s happy about staying or not—those thick brows are always scowling. But he lets out a low growl of thanks and takes the armchair I offer him. North settles down at his feet, and I leave them sitting by the fire, whipping up two hot chocolates in the kitchen. I make them the way my brother used to, topping them with cream and marshmallows I bought from the grocery store earlier. Then I fill up a bowl of water and carry everything through.
“Thanks,” Ivan says as I pass him a steaming mug. “Looks good.”
I set down the water bowl in front of North, then take a sip of my hot chocolate. It’s sweet and creamy, the marshmallows melting on my tongue as I sit opposite Ivan. For a moment, we sit in silence. The fire crackles merrily in the hearth. Outside, the wind whistles, snowflakes dancing over the treetops surrounding the cabin.
“This place is magical,” I murmur, smiling at the view. “Have you always lived out here?”
“Pretty much. Grew up in Cherry Hollow.” Ivan sets down his mug. “What about you, Candy Cane? Always lived in Florida?”
He grunts the nickname like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I melt all over again. There’s something special about this grumpy Grinch giving me a cute, festive nickname. It feels almost intimate.
“Yep,” I say. “I grew up in a small town near Miami, then made the move to the city after high school.”
I don’t look like a stereotypical Floridian. My pale skin really isn’t built for long Miami summers, and I usually end up looking like a lobster for months on end. Until my trip to Cherry Mountain, I’d barely even left my home state.
“What do you do in Miami?” Ivan asks.
“I’m an event photographer. Freelance. I take photos at parties, corporate events, concerts…but it’s mostly weddings.” Isegue into my next question as casually as possible. “Are you married?”
