He's got to be at least six and a half feet tall, with shoulders that fill the doorframe. Salt-and-pepper beard covers a strong jaw, and steel-gray eyes stare down at me with something between surprise and annoyance. His dark hair is mussed like he's been running his hands through it, and he's wearing a thick wool sweater, black not Christmassy at all, that does nothing to hide the solid muscle underneath.
"You lost?" His voice is deep, rough, like he doesn't use it much.
I hold up the bakery bag, trying to ignore how my stomach does a little flip at the way his gaze travels over me as he takes in my snow-covered Christmas sweater, my flushed cheeks, probably the way I'm shivering despite my best efforts to look professional.
"Actually," I say, offering him my brightest smile, "I think I'm exactly where I need to be. Delivery from Lottie's Mountain Bakery for C. Murphy. Christmas cookies from," I glance at the order slip, "From your mother. She wanted to make sure you had something sweet for Christmas."
He stares at me for a long moment, then at the bag in my hands, then back at my face. Behind him, I can see the warm glow of a fireplace and smell something that might be coffee.
"Storm's getting worse," he says finally.
"I know. My van's stuck down the road. I was hoping maybe I could use your phone to call for help?"
Pain flickers over his face, like I've just reminded him of something he'd rather forget.
"Christ," he mutters under his breath, then steps back to let me in. "Get inside before you freeze to death."
The warmth hits me immediately, and I can't suppress a little sigh of relief as I step into his cabin. It's rustic but clean, all exposed beams and stone fireplace. Very masculine. Very solitary. No Christmas decorations in sight.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Murphy. I'm Ivy, by the way. Ivy Ford." I set the bakery bag on a small table by the door and start unwinding my scarf. "I really appreciate this. I promise I won't be any trouble."
He closes the door behind me with a soft thud that sounds suspiciously final.
"Colt," he says simply. "And you might want to save the gratitude until you hear the bad news."
2
Colt
The girl, Ivy, is dripping melted snow all over my floor, but I can't bring myself to care. She's looking up at me with these warm brown eyes that remind me of hot chocolate, and her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. When she smiles, she's got dimples that make something uncomfortable twist in my chest.
I haven't had a woman in my cabin since, hell, since I moved up here three years ago.
"Bad news?" she asks, unwrapping her scarf to reveal long black hair in a braid over one shoulder. She's shorter than I thought, maybe five-four, thick and curvy. The Christmas sweater she's wearing, complete with a light-up reindeer, should look ridiculous. Instead, it makes her look young and sweet and completely out of place in my stark cabin.
"This storm is going to be a bad one," I tell her, grabbing a towel from the bathroom. "It’s not going to stop until morning."
She blinks at me. Instead of the panic I'm expecting, her face lights up like I just told her she won Christmas.
"Really? I get to spend Christmas up here?" She looks around my cabin with genuine delight, like she's seeing some kind of winter wonderland instead of my deliberately sparse living space. "This is so cozy! And that fireplace is gorgeous. Do you cut your own wood? Of course you do, look at those arms."
She stops talking abruptly, her cheeks turning an even deeper shade of pink.
"I mean, uh, your obviously very functional arms. For wood cutting. Not that I was looking at your arms specifically, I was just," she breaks off with a nervous laugh.
"Ivy."
"Yes?"
"You're soaked. You need to get out of those wet clothes before you get hypothermic."
Her eyes go wide. "Oh. Right. That's very practical advice."
I disappear into my bedroom and grab a clean flannel shirt and some thermal underwear. When I come back, she's standing exactly where I left her, still dripping.
"Here." I hold out the clothes. "Change into these. I'll make coffee."
She takes the bundle, her fingers brushing mine.
