Alpine Embrace

Chapter 20

The morning after a game, Jaxon moved like a man made of rusty hinges.

I was already awake, perched on a stool at the kitchen island. The sun was streaming through the windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, and the absolute explosion of art supplies I had spread across the granite counter.

Charcoal sticks, graphite pencils, three different sketchbooks, and a dangerously precarious stack of reference photos were scattered everywhere. I was in the zone. I had been drawing for two hours, fueled by the adrenaline of last night and a pot of very strong coffee.

Then, the monster emerged from the hallway.

Jaxon shuffled into the kitchen. He was shirtless, wearing only gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His torso was a map of violence, a massive purple bruise bloomed across his ribs on the left side, and another yellowing one on his bicep.

He didn't say good morning. He groaned.

He walked to the coffee maker, wincing as he reached for a mug. He opened the cupboard. It was empty.

He closed the cupboard. He opened the dishwasher.

"Where," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel in a blender, "are the mugs?"

"In the drying rack," I said, not looking up from my shading. "I washed them by hand because the dishwasher was full."

He turned to the drying rack. It was currently buried under a stack of my paper sketches.

He stared at the sketches. Then he looked at me.

"Kelsea."

"Yeah?"

"Why is there a drawing of a pine cone on my coffee mug?"

"It's drying," I said. "Just move it."

He didn't move it. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long, sharp breath through his teeth.

"I can't move it," he said tightly. "Because if I move it, I will knock over the charcoal. And if I knock over the charcoal, it will get on the counter. And then I will have black dust in my coffee."

"I'll move it," I said, hopping off the stool.

I reached over, moving the paper. In my haste, I bumped a tin of graphite powder.

It tipped.

POOF.

A small gray mushroom cloud erupted on the pristine white counter, inches from Jaxon’s hand.

The silence that followed was louder than the avalanche.

Jaxon stared at the gray powder coating his hand. He looked up at me. His eyes were dark, tired, and swimming with pain.

"This is a kitchen," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Not a studio."

"I know," I said, grabbing a rag. "I'm sorry. I'll clean it up."

"I just wanted coffee," he snapped. "I have a headache that feels like a drill press. My ribs are on fire. I just wanted one cup of coffee in a clean kitchen."

"I said I'm sorry," I said, scrubbing at the spot. "I got inspired. I didn't think you'd be up yet."

"It's everywhere, Kelsea," he grumbled, gesturing to the island. "It's chaos. I can't think in chaos. My life is already a mess. The house is broken. The press is hounding me. Can I just have one surface that isn't covered in your... stuff?"

I stopped scrubbing. I looked at him.

The "Pro Athlete" mask was gone. The "Hero" was gone. This was just a man in pain who was used to controlling his environment, and I had taken that control away.

But his tone stung.

"My 'stuff' is my work," I said, my voice hardening. "And I'm sorry I don't have a designated wing of the house to do it in, but your roof collapsed on the guest room."

"Don't throw the roof in my face," he warned.

"I'm not! But I'm living out of a suitcase in your living room, Jaxon! I'm trying to be invisible, but I'm a person! I take up space! I make messes!"

"Well, maybe make them somewhere else!"

"Fine!" I grabbed my sketchbook. "I'll go to the deck. Where it's freezing. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," he growled, finally grabbing a mug.

I stormed out onto the deck, slamming the sliding glass door behind me.

The cold air hit me like a slap. I wrapped my cardigan tighter around myself, sitting on the frozen patio chair.

I opened my sketchbook, but I couldn't draw. My hands were shaking.

I was angry. But mostly, I was embarrassed.

He was right. I was messy. I was a whirlwind of creative chaos. And he was a guy who organized his socks by color and timed his day to the minute.

But I was also right. He was being a jerk because he was hurt.

I sat there for ten minutes, watching the steam rise from my breath.

The sliding door opened.

Jaxon stepped out. He had put on a hoodie, but he was still barefoot in the snow. He held two steaming mugs.

He walked over to me. He looked wretched. The anger was gone, replaced by a sheepish, pained expression.

He held out a mug.

"Peace offering," he muttered. "It's hazelnut. I found the creamer you like."

I looked at the mug. Then I looked at his bare feet turning pink on the ice.

"You're going to get frostbite," I said, taking the mug.

"I deserve it," he said. "I was an ass."

"Yeah," I agreed, sipping the coffee. It was perfect. "You were."

He sighed, leaning against the railing, facing me. He winced as he shifted his weight.

"My ribs are killing me," he admitted quietly. "I didn't sleep. Every time I breathe, it feels like a knife."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"Because you were sleeping like the dead. And you looked... peaceful." He looked down at his coffee. "I'm not used to noise, Kelsea. Or mess. For three years, this house has been a museum. Just me and Mia, and we barely touch anything. It's sterile."

"And I came in and threw paint at the walls," I said softly.

"Yeah. And I panicked." He looked up, his gray eyes sincere. "But the truth is... I hated the museum. It was lonely."

"I'm chaotic, Jaxon," I said, setting my mug down on the icy table. "I lose my keys. I leave caps off markers. I think visually, which means I have to see everything at once. That's not going to change."

"I don't want you to change," he said immediately. "I just... I need a minute to adjust the settings on my brain. I'm used to defense. Protecting the zone. Keeping things out."

"And I'm invading the zone."

"You're not invading," he said, taking a step toward me. "You're remodeling."

I smiled, despite myself. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Yeah." He set his mug down next to mine. "I'm sorry I snapped. The graphite... it actually looked kind of cool. Like a storm cloud."

"It was a mess," I conceded. "I'll clean it up. And I'll try to keep the explosion contained to one corner."

"Deal."

He stood there, shivering slightly in the cold.

"Come inside," I said, standing up. "Before you get hypothermia and I have to explain to Sven why the Captain is a popsicle."

"Wait," he said.

He reached out, catching my hand. His grip was warm, rough, and desperate.

"There's one more thing," he said.

"What?"

"I don't want to be grumpy anymore. But I'm still in pain."

"I can get you ice," I offered. "Or ibuprofen."

"I have a better idea."

He pulled me closer. He winced slightly as his ribs protested, but he didn't stop until my body was pressed against his.

"Distract me," he whispered.

"How?"

He didn't answer with words. He cupped my face with both hands, his thumbs tracing my jawline, tilting my head back.

He lowered his mouth to mine.

This wasn't the frantic kiss in the blanket fort. It wasn't the sweet kiss in the truck.

This was deliberate. This was hungry.

His lips moved over mine with a slow, searing intensity that made my toes curl in my boots. I wrapped my arms around his neck, careful of his bruised shoulder, and pulled him down.

He groaned, a low sound deep in his throat that vibrated against my mouth. He tasted like coffee and hazelnut and pure, unadulterated need.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, claiming me. It was messy. It was wet. It was perfect.

We stood there on the freezing deck, the steam rising around us, devouring each other.

My hands tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. His hands slid down my back, gripping my waist, pulling me so flush against him I could feel the hard ridge of his arousal through his sweatpants.

He broke the kiss, gasping for air, his forehead resting against mine.

"Better?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

He let out a ragged laugh. "I don't even remember having ribs."

"Good," I smiled, pecking his lips one more time. "Now let's go inside. I have a kitchen to clean."

"Leave it," he murmured, kissing the spot behind my ear. "Leave the mess. Just... stay with me. On the couch. For five minutes."

"Five minutes?"

"Or all day," he said, pulling me toward the door. "But definitely at least five minutes."