The sound of my name, soft and shaky, hits like a puck to the chest. That look in her eyes, pleading and daring all at once, is the same one from last time. The one I can’t forget.
The storm rattles the windows, wind clawing at the walls. Inside, the silence presses in, heavy with everything we’re not saying. My fist curls tight at my side, nails digging into mypalms. If I don’t keep myself grounded, I’ll give in to her, and I can’t.
Not because I don’t want to, but because she isn’t mine.
I tip my head slightly, closing it by an inch anyway. “Like what you see?”
Her breath hitches, loud enough to cut through the storm. Her eyes flick down, then back up. Color rushes her cheeks. “Don’t—” Her voice wavers, but she pushes through it. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
A humorless laugh escapes. “You didn’t look away.”
Her chin tips up, defiant even with her voice still shaking. “You’re the one walking around half naked. Maybe that works with all the girls you drag home, but you’d think staying in someone else’s cabin would be different.”
The corner of my mouth twitches before I kill it. She catches it anyway. She always does. Her shoulders square, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll make the next move.
Instead, I clear my throat and straighten, cutting us both off. “Go to bed, Tessa. I don’t want to have to drag you out in the morning.” My voice comes out harsher than I meant.
Her lips part, ready to fire back, but she swallows it down. For a beat, her eyes sweep my face like she’s searching for something before she steps past me.
The air shifts as I brush past her, close enough to catch the warmth of her skin. Every nerve in me spikes. I don’t look back.
Inside the bathroom, I shut the door and lean against the wall, head tipped back as a heavy breath leaves me. “Christ.”
You’d think the weight on my chest would ease, but I’m more wound up now than I was five minutes ago.
Sleep? Not a chance in hell. Not with her looking at me like that. Not when every nerve in me wants to remind her she’s the only girl I want in my bed.
Chapter Six
Tessa
I should’ve known better than to think Clay was letting his walls down last night.
For a second, just a brief second, I swore I saw him. Not the guarded, closed-off man he is now, but the Clay I kissed in the hallway that Christmas three years ago. The one who pulled me close like he couldn’t stand another moment without me. His eyes caught mine in the dark, and for a heartbeat, I let myself believe he remembered it too.
But then it was gone. His face hardened, his walls slammed back into place, and he brushed past me like I was nothing more than a defender in his way.
I steeled my spine and pretended I didn’t care, but the ache has been sitting heavy in my chest ever since. So this morning, I kept myself busy. That’s what I do when I don’t want to feel something.
I made coffee, poured one mug for myself and left the rest for him, then stepped out onto the porch. The storm left snow piled to my knees, and the driveway was now buried. Clay’s already outside, bent over the car, shoveling like he can dig us all the way back to Briar Creek by himself.
I lingered longer than I should have, clutching the mug in both hands, hoping he’d glance up. Just once, but he never did. Eventually, the coffee went lukewarm, and I slipped back inside with that same hollow ache he has a way of leaving behind.
From there, I threw myself into breakfast—bacon, eggs, and the cinnamon rolls the neighbor left for us to bake. Soon, the cabin smelled like something sweet enough to make me forget. I scrubbed the skillet, plated the leftovers for him, and wiped down the counters twice. It still wasn’t enough to quiet my head.
Now I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the chaos I created. Wrapping paper torn in jagged strips, ribbons coiled across the rug, crushed bows under my knee. Tape clings to my fingers, my sweatshirt, and even a loose strand of hair I can’t shake free.
“Perfect, Tessa,” I mutter as the paper refuses to fold neatly. “Martha Stewart would be so proud.”
The floor shifts behind me, and I freeze. Clay’s boots drag across the wood before he comes into view. He fills the doorway, hair damp, shoulders caught in the firelight. His gaze moves over the chaos, settling on me with that same unimpressed look.
“Hate to break it to you, but you struggling to wrap those presents is a waste of time. We’re not going anywhere anytime soon.” His voice is gruff, but amusement flickers in his eyes.
I pluck the sad little bow between my fingers like I’ve won a prize. “If I don’t keep busy, I'm going to lose my mind being stuck here with you. Be careful, or you might wind up strangled by a string of Christmas lights.”
He presses his lips together like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, but the spark in his eyes gives him away. Still, he doesn’t give me the satisfaction. Instead, he steps into the room and crouches by the mess of paper and ribbon.
The old floorboards groan under his weight, and the sound seems to pull the space tighter around us. All at once, I’m aware of the heat radiating off him and the faint mix of snow and cedar clinging to his coat.
