I strode to the tree, giving it a once-over. The ornaments appeared familiar. Getting a closer look, I recognized the jelly and peanut butter labels from the jars he’d used in the PB&J disaster. And were those paper rings made from the fruit rolls?
Other wrappers from the vending machine he’d cut into festive shapes adorned the tree. Several of the partially broken ornaments were there, too, and, when turned a certain way, were still pretty, catching the firelight. Gold napkin rings from the dining room filled in spaces here and there. And the best part, he used twine and tied a knife, spoon, and fork among the branches.
I couldn’t hide a grin. Holden hadn’t half-assed this, and had created a tree of everything we’d experienced today. It meant more to me because ornaments should be personal, even if they belonged in the trash. A laugh escaped at the ridiculously perfect nature of it all. The man seemed to have that effect on me. I clamped a hand to my mouth, hoping I wouldn’t wake him.
On his cot, he didn’t stir, with one arm thrown over his head, the other resting on his chest. A single sheet covered him from hip to mid-thigh, leaving his abs visible. What a sinful six-pack they were. A faint trail of dark hair led down from his navel, disappearing beneath the sheet.
My pulse raced away. It had been a while since I’d seen a man with the kind of body that made my palms itch to touch. Even longer since I’d let myself be with one. And here he was. My boss. My ex-fiancé’s former friend. The man I’d blamed for years.
The man who might actually be a good guy.
I bit my bottom lip and stepped closer to him before my brain could stop me, my boots whispering over the carpet. His hair was mussed like he’d been dragging his hands through it again. Of course even asleep, he had the nerve to be handsome.
Suddenly, he shifted, muscles in his abdomen tightening. I froze; heat gathered under my collar. His head turned a fraction, like his internal radar had picked up my presence. The urge to reach out, to warm my cold hands on his skin, hit so hard they gathered the hem of my chef’s coat instead.
I backed away quietly. I toed off my boots, set them beside the other cot, and hid under my blankets like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew.
A moment later, I heard him stir. Springs creaked. A low, sleepy groan escaped him, followed by the soft pad of his bare feet on the rug.
I lay on my side, pretending to be asleep, complete with a tiny snore. From what I could tell, he moved to the fireplace, feeding another log into the flame.
Don’t look.I peeked anyway.
His broad, muscular back thinned to a trim waist, the line of his spine elegantly cut. My gaze admired and drifted lower, down his ass in gray sweat shorts, further down his thick thighs, stopping at the scars by his knee. The kind you only got from multiple surgeries and an ego wrenching fall.
The way the accident had ruined his shot at Olympic gold could have ruined anyone for life. But he wasn’t just some rich snowboarder who’d bought a mountain because he was bored.He was a man who’d lost something huge, who people counted out, but he rebuilt himself anyway, and poured that second chance into this place.
Even though he was a walking accident sometimes, his heart was here. I could feel it in every square inch.
He adjusted the log, coaxing the flames higher, then stood. I shut my eyes quickly and slowed my breathing.
His steps came closer. The faint scent of his bergamot-wood cologne ghosted in the air. He stood there long enough that I desired another peek. My heart thumped wildly.
“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered. “Brad didn’t deserve you. If only I’d gotten to you first in Ibiza.”
The words slammed into me, every muscle tightening from the shock of it. He’d thought that? After all this time?
I let out the smallest moan, with a pretend stir, a stretch of my limbs. He didn’t shift away. I opened my eyes—and he was right there, gazing down at me, expression open, unguarded in a way he never let me see when I was sniping at him all day.
“Hey, Frosty. I thought you’d work all night just to avoid me.”
I swallowed, my throat a little thick. “No. I worked until I was exhausted, though. So if you don’t mind…”
“Right.” He retreated to his own cot, holding up both hands, his flirty, self-protective grin flashing. “I’ll shut up and let you sleep.”
Silence draped over us, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional groan of the storm outside. I stared at the ceiling.
Every time he shifted, awareness slid through me. Rustling sheets. The faint exhale when he rolled over. Tossing and turning.
“Are you okay?” I finally asked into the dark. “Can’t sleep?” The fire cast enough light that I could see the outline of his head on the pillow.
“From room to room, I started making a list earlier,” he sighed. “I noted everything I saw that still needs to be done from my very untrained eye. The list is long, Lilah. What if opening day is a disaster?”
“It won’t be.”
“I think I’m panicking. Which is new. I’m usually very chill.” His voice changed—no swagger, no wink, plenty of worry. “What was I thinking, sending the staff away for a few days? Maybe I should’ve kept some of them here, kept pushing through. Should I change opening day? Push back another week?”
The man behind the ego-framed Mr. Snowman article, the one who’d spent a fortune and his pride on this dream and was afraid he’d screwed it all up. Confessed with such vulnerability in his tone, it hit my heart in a way I hadn’t expected.
