“Please.” I shake my head. “I’d be stuck listening to him rehash his glory days while yelling at the TV every time someone fumbles.”
Clay grins, eyes glinting in the firelight. “He still talk about that championship game?”
“Every Thanksgiving.” I laugh. “Pretty sure Mom can recite the entire story play-by-play.”
“Exactly,” Clay says, smug. “You should be thanking me.”
I shake my head, fighting another laugh. “Still not sure this is better.”
I roll my eyes, but the heaviness in my chest eases just enough that I can breathe again.
I push off the couch and head for the kitchen. The small stash of groceries the owner left isn’t much, but it’s something—pasta,canned tomatoes, a few vegetables. I set them on the counter and reach for a knife, determined to make myself useful.
Behind me, there’s a scrape of a chair. Boots scuff across the floor. I turn just as Clay comes up beside me. Before I can argue, he plucks the knife right out of my hand.
“Careful,” he mutters, sliding the cutting board closer. “Last thing we need is you bleeding all over the place.”
I stare at him, thrown off. “Since when do you help in the kitchen?”
“Don’t get used to it,” he says, already chopping like he knows what he’s doing. His expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does—lighter.
We work side by side, the silence shifting into something easier. The smell of garlic hits the pan, mixing with the smoke from the fire and the faint sweetness of the apple-pie candle I lit earlier. For the first time all day, the cabin feels less like a cage.
When the pasta’s ready, I grab two plates and slide one across the table to him. Our fingers brush in the handoff—rough skin against mine, a jolt that shoots straight through me. He pulls back too quick, fork clattering against the plate he hasn’t even touched yet, muttering something about the storm. My hand keeps tingling long after.
We eat in silence at first, the scrape of silverware loud in the quiet cabin. It’s stiff, both of us circling for safe ground. I ask what he’s been doing lately. He keeps it short—working out, getting used to post-NHL life, nothing more.
“So what are you even doing in Kolmont?” I ask finally, twirling pasta around my fork like I don’t care much about the answer.
His fork pauses for a beat. “Business.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s specific.”
He doesn’t look up. “Good thing I’m not taking questions.”
A laugh slips out of me. “You really are a pain in the ass, you know that?”
This time, his mouth twitches like he’s fighting it. “And you’re nosy.”
The words don’t bite the way they could. They sit lighter, almost warm. Against my better judgment, I smile. For once, the edge between us dulls.
When the plates are cleared, Clay leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. He studies me for a long moment before saying, “So… you gonna make me sit here in silence all night, or are we putting on one of those cheesy Christmas movies you love?”
My head snaps toward him, caught off guard. “What?”
He shrugs, casual, like it’s no big deal. “Storm’s not going anywhere. Might as well kill time.”
I study him, still trying to figure out the sudden shift. He won’t meet my eyes, keeping his expression unreadable.
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “Fine. But only if there’s cocoa.”
One brow lifts. “You drive a hard bargain, St. James.”
I busy myself at the counter, mixing cocoa into steaming mugs while he pokes at the fire, stoking it higher. The room glows, shadows stretching long across the log walls. When I hand him his mug, his fingers brush mine again. It’s brief but enough to spark that restless hum under my skin.
We end up on opposite ends of the couch. I tuck myself into one corner with a blanket and my cocoa, the mug warm between my hands. Clay leans back on the other end, stiff, arms crossed like he’s daring anyone to call it cozy. The movie’s too bright and cheerful, but it doesn’t matter. The storm outside—and the one in me—both ease under the glow of the fire.
I sip my cocoa, let the sweetness spread through me, and sink deeper into the cushions. The fire crackles, the movie plays, and his steady breathing fills the quiet until my eyes grow heavy.
