I grin, wrapping both hands around my mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. "See? Hot cocoa fixes everything."
The corner of his mouth twitches again. Definitely almost a smile. "You're relentless."
"Christmas miracle worker," I correct. "It's what I do."
For a long moment, the only sound is the crackle of the fire and the howl of the wind outside. The cabin's small, warm,intimate. Shadows pool in the corners. The lamplight is golden and soft, making everything feel like a dream.
I shouldn't notice how his gaze drifts to my mouth… or how my pulse races when it does. How his breathing seems to deepen. How the air between us thickens.
But I do.
Because somewhere between the storm and the silence, between his gruff exterior and the gentle way he carved a smile onto a wooden doll's face, I'm realizing something dangerous.
I didn't just come here for toys.
I came here for a man who doesn't believe in magic…
And I'm starting to want to prove him wrong.
Chapter 4
Beau
IstoppedbelievinginChristmas the year my dad died.
Stopped believing in a lot of things, if I'm honest.
Holidays just meant empty chairs and noise I didn't know how to fill, people asking questions I couldn't answer, pity in their eyes that made me want to disappear. So I came up here instead. Traded tinsel for timber, parties for peace, crowds for solitude.
And for a long time, it worked.
Until now.
Faith sits cross-legged on the rug by the fire, a mug of cocoa balanced in her hands. Her hair catches the firelight, turning the color of spun gold. She's humming again—soft, unselfconscious,some carol I half-remember from childhood—and the sound crawls right under my skin and settles there, warm and insistent.
"Are you always this quiet?" she asks without looking up.
"Mostly."
"That's a shame. You've got a nice voice. Deep. Certain."
I huff a laugh, surprised by the compliment. "Haven't had much reason to use it."
She studies me for a long beat, her expression softer than I'm ready for. Seeing past the walls. "You make toys for kids you'll never meet. Your generosity and charity connect you to people, whether you like it or not."
Something tightens in my chest, squeezes hard. I set down the carving knife I've been pretending to use, fingers suddenly unsteady. "It's not charity. It's just something I know how to do."
"Still counts as kindness. You’re practically Santa Claus."
She says it like it's fact, like she's certain there's good in me worth finding. And for the first time in years, I want to believe her.
The storm outside has settled into a steady hush. The snow is still falling, still blocking us in, but it’s quieter now. Like the mountain's holding its breath. The fire pops, sending up a shower of sparks. I move to toss another log on, but she beats me to it, unfolding from the rug with easy grace.
She kneels beside the hearth, reaching for the wood I'd stacked. Her sweater rides up as she leans forward, revealing a tempting curve of soft skin above her jeans, the small of her back, pale and smooth.
My pulse kicks hard.
Hell.
