Alpine Embrace

Chapter 14

The smell of pepperoni and melted mozzarella was doing things to my brain that I wasn’t sure were legal.

The truck cab was warm, filled with the scent of woodsmoke from Jaxon’s jacket and the three extra-large pizza boxes sitting on the center console between us. Mia was humming a song in the back seat, her mouth already full of a breadstick she’d charmed out of the owner of Luigi’s back in the village.

We were climbing the mountain again. The sun was dipping low, casting long, bruised purple shadows across the snow.

"You realize," I said, eyeing the stack of boxes, "that this is enough food to feed a small army. Or one hockey team."

Jaxon glanced at the pizzas, then back at the road. He looked relaxed. The white-knuckled tension from earlier was gone, replaced by a casual, one-handed driving style that was devastatingly attractive.

"I have a high metabolism," he defended. "And I haven't eaten a real meal in three days. Unless you count burnt toast and panic."

"I count panic as a food group," I nodded. "It’s high in cardio."

He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through the seat. "Touché."

We turned into the driveway. The sight of the chalet hit me differently this time.

Before, it had been a fortress. A prison. A tomb.

Now, with the golden light of sunset reflecting off the massive windows and the knowledge that I wasn't leaving, it looked... waiting. It looked like a challenge.

We parked next to the snowbank that still buried the guest wing.

"Alright," Jaxon said, killing the engine. "Phase two. Reclaiming the castle."

He grabbed the pizzas. I grabbed the bag of sodas and Mia’s hand. We crunched through the snow to the front door.

Inside, the house was warm. The furnace had been running all afternoon. The lights were blazing overhead, the harsh, clinical LEDs I had complained about.

Jaxon toed off his boots and walked straight to the living room. He set the pizzas on the coffee table, right in the middle of our dismantled blanket fort.

Then, he reached up to the wall panel. He dimmed the overhead lights until they were a soft glow. He walked over to the fireplace and flicked the switch for the gas starter. The flames roared to life instantly.

He turned to me. "Better?"

My chest squeezed. He remembered. He hated the dark, but he knew I hated the glare. He was compromising.

"Perfect," I smiled.

"Pizza!" Mia cheered, diving for the boxes.

We ate on the floor again, but this time it wasn't out of survival necessity. It was a picnic. We sat on the expensive Persian rug, leaning against the leather sofa.

Jaxon devoured four slices in record time. Watching him eat was... an experience. He ate with the same efficiency and intensity he applied to shoveling snow. It was strangely mesmerizing.

"So," he said, wiping tomato sauce from his thumb. "Logistics."

I froze mid-chew. "Logistics."

"Yeah. The boring stuff. The road is open, but the guest wing is condemned. The contractor I called on the drive up, Rick, is coming tomorrow morning to assess the structural damage. He says it’s going to be loud."

"Loud is fine," I said. "I lived in New York next to a fire station. I sleep through sirens."

"Good. But speaking of sleep..." He paused, looking around the room. "We need a new arrangement."

My heart did a little stutter-step.

The guest room was gone. The couches were comfortable, but they were still couches. And then there was... the Master Suite. The forbidden zone. The East Wing.

"I can take the couch," I said quickly. "It's huge. It's basically a twin bed. I'm fine there."

Jaxon frowned. "You're not sleeping on the couch, Kelsea. You're a guest. Guests get beds."

"My bed is currently under a ton of snow, Jaxon. Unless you have a secret guest room you've been hiding?"

He looked at me, his gray eyes serious. "You can take my room."

I choked on my soda. "What?"

"My room," he repeated calmly. "It has a King bed. En-suite bath. It’s the warmest room in the house."

"And where will you sleep?"

"Here," he gestured to the rug. "Or the couch. I've slept on worse. Bench seats on buses. Locker room floors."

"Absolutely not," I said firmly. "I am not kicking the homeowner out of his own bed. That's ridiculous. You're 6'4". You'll wake up shaped like a pretzel."

"I'm 6'5"," he corrected. "And I'm sturdy."

"I'm taking the couch," I insisted. "End of discussion. I'm the intruder here. I'm the one crashing your life. I take the floor."

Mia looked between us, holding a pepperoni slice like a judge's gavel.

"Why don't you have a sleepover?" she suggested. "Like last night?"

The silence that followed was instant and heavy.

Jaxon looked at me. I looked at Jaxon.

The memory of waking up tangled in his sheets, his hand in my hair, his body reacting to mine... heat flooded my face.

"Because," Jaxon said to Mia, his voice a little tight. "Grown-ups need space, peanut. Kelsea needs her own spot."

"Boring," Mia declared. She finished her pizza and stood up. "I'm tired. Can we read the dragon story now?"

"Yeah," Jaxon said, clearly grateful for the distraction. "Go get your PJs on. I'll be in to tuck you in."

Mia ran off toward her room, the only other intact bedroom in the house.

Jaxon stood up and began clearing the pizza boxes. I helped him, stacking the cardboard. Our hands brushed as we both reached for the same napkin.

Static electricity zapped us.

He pulled back, his eyes locking onto mine.

"The couch isn't a long-term solution," he murmured.

"It works for now," I said, my voice breathless. "One day at a time, right?"

"Right."

He carried the boxes to the kitchen. I followed, grabbing the trash bag.

"I'll help you clean up," I said. "Then I'm going to set up my 'studio' in the corner. If that's okay?"

"Your studio?"

"My sketchbook. My pencils. I need a workspace. If I'm staying, I need to work. I have a deadline for a graphic novel pitch in two weeks."

He leaned against the granite counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The flannel shirt pulled tight across his biceps.

"A pitch? For a publisher?"

"Yeah. It's... well, it was supposed to be a romance. A rom-com."

He raised an eyebrow. "Rom-com? You?"

"I know. The irony is palpable. It was going terribly. My characters were too cynical. They just argued and drank wine."

"Sounds realistic," he smirked.

"But," I continued, stepping closer. "I think I have some new inspiration. Some... warmer material."

His gaze dropped to my lips. The air in the kitchen grew thick again. The hum of the refrigerator seemed to fade away.

"Is the hero a hockey player?" he asked, his voice low.

"Maybe," I whispered. "Does he have a good slapshot?"

"The best in the league."

He took a step toward me. I backed up until my lower back hit the counter. He didn't stop until he was crowding my space, his hands resting on the edge of the granite on either side of my hips. He was caging me in, but I had never felt freer.

"Kelsea," he breathed.

"Jaxon."

He leaned down. I tilted my chin up.

"Daddy! I can't find my penguin!"

We sprang apart again. Jaxon let out a groan that was pure frustration.

"The penguin," he muttered, running a hand down his face. "The nemesis of my love life."

I laughed, the tension breaking but leaving a warm, buzzing energy in its wake. "Go find the penguin, Dad. I'll do the dishes."

He lingered for a second, looking at me. "You sure about the couch?"

"Positive. I'll make a nest. It'll be cozy."

"Okay," he said. "But if you get cold... wake me up."

"Is that an invitation?"

"It's a safety protocol," he deadpanned, but his eyes were dancing.

He turned and walked down the hall to Mia’s room.

I turned to the sink, turning on the hot water. I looked at my reflection in the dark window above the tap.

I was homeless. I was sleeping on a couch in a broken house with a man I barely knew, and I was in heaven.

I scrubbed a pizza plate, humming the tune Mia had been singing earlier.

I had never been happier.

Later that night, the house was silent.

I had built my nest on the oversized leather sofa. I had three blankets, two pillows, and a prime view of the fireplace.

I was sketching by the light of the fire. I was drawing the kitchen. I drew Jaxon leaning against the counter, his arms crossed, that smirk on his face. I captured the way his hair fell over his forehead, the strength in his forearms.

I heard a floorboard creak.

I looked up.

Jaxon was standing on the landing of the stairs that led up to the master suite. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. No flannel.

He was holding a bundle of fabric.

He walked down the stairs silently and crossed the room to the sofa.

"Extra duvet," he whispered. "It's down. Rated for negative thirty."

He draped it over me. It was heavy, soft, and smelled like him.

"Thanks," I whispered.

He stood there for a moment, looking down at me in my nest. The firelight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the scar, the stubble, the exhaustion.

"Goodnight, Kelsea," he said.

"Goodnight, Jaxon."

He turned to leave, then paused.

"By the way," he said, not looking back. "The hero in your book?"

"Yeah?"

"Make sure he wins the game."

He walked back up the stairs.

I smiled, pulling the duvet up to my chin.

"He will," I whispered to the empty room. "He definitely will."