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“Oh.” I shrug. “Well, the Elf Brigade helps.”
Ryan pauses, then turns to stare at me, brows raised. “You’re telling me now that I could’ve outsourced this to begin with?”
Someone—Jake or Carter, I’m not sure which—laughs.
“The elves only help those who can’t help themselves,” I tell Ryan, wide-eyed. Then I wave a hand vaguely at his chest. “We would never rob a physically fit young person of the pleasure of doing it themselves.”
Ryan grunts, but his lip twitches like he’s fighting a grin. “You’re going on the naughty list for withholding that information.”
“You think you have a better in with Santa than an elf?”
He glances at his brothers, who are folding up the ladder and dragging storage totes into the garage.
“Do you wanna come inside?” he asks me.
“Why?” I reply, arms folded.
“Hot cocoa and a Christmas movie?” he suggests, and be still my heart, I don’t even think he’s kidding.
“Be careful,” Jake warns over his shoulder as he hefts the ladder. “His favorite’s Die Hard.”
“And he makes shit cocoa,” Carter adds.
“You two can leave now,” Ryan calls out, barely giving them a glance.
Carter grabs his chest, acting wounded. “Wow, so ungrateful.”
I laugh. Ryan doesn’t take his eyes off of me. “We can stream anything you want. The internet in Reindeer Falls is actually much better than I remembered.”
The invitation is tempting. Not just because I’m a sucker for a Christmas movie, really any of them, but because he’s doing all of this for me. It makes me feel very… fuzzy.
Fuzzy and warm, especially when Ryan’s eyes linger on my lips.
“So,” he says, voice dipping to dangerous, husky territory. “Hot cocoa?”
I smile. He knows the way to my heart, that’s for sure.
“Is yours really terrible?” I ask because, honestly, nothing is worse than terrible hot cocoa. Like, if he tries to add water to it or something, I might have to leave and never come back.
That’s a lie. I’d just ask for water.
“Pfft.” He rolls his eyes. “Those two don’t know shit. You think I’ve ever made my A-game cocoa for either of those idiots? No.”
I laugh, and it’s a real laugh. A hopeful laugh. Because the Scrooge of Reindeer Falls himself is inviting me into his house on Candy Cane Lane to make me hot cocoa and watch a Christmas movie.
I follow him inside and settle myself on the giant worn-in leather couch facing the television—and honestly, the TV’s probably the most modern thing in this place. I listen as Ryan busies himself in the kitchen, letting my eyes roam over everything. It all feels so cozy, so lived in. So home-y. Especially with the Christmas tree providing ambient lighting.
I can’t imagine wanting to leave it.
Ryan changed his mind about the Christmas decorations. Is there a chance he might change his mind about selling this place?
“Cocoa’s ready,” Ryan declares, coming out of the kitchen with two steaming mugs. Santa mugs.
“Wow.” I bite my lip. “Hot cocoa and holiday mugs. Wow.”
He sits down next to me on the couch. So close that our knees touch. I wait for him to move, but he doesn’t. He just steadies those blue eyes in my direction.
I tap my finger on the mug.
“So,” I say, suddenly not really sure of how to proceed when we’re not arguing. “You found all the decorations okay?”
“Yeah. Uncle Joe had it all labeled in the attic.” He grins, remembering. “He loved Christmas more than anyone I ever met. Well, before you.”
He winks, and I swear I nearly forget to breathe. I take a quick sip of cocoa.
“Holy shit,” I sputter, the mixture of milk and chocolate still fresh on my tongue.
“Bad?” Ryan asks, looking genuinely alarmed.
“No,” I say, shaking my head before taking another sip, surprised. I resist the urge to moan as it hits my mouth again. “No, this is incredible. This is better than Ginger’s hot cocoa. How did you do this? I thought you weren’t into cocoa?”
“I never said that,” he says. “I just said that, at eight a.m., I prefer coffee.”
“But this is really, really good,” I insist. “Like professionally good.”
“I have a few tricks up my sleeve,” he says, giving me a lazy grin that makes me think he means sex things. But then he adds, “Expensive chocolate and the ability to follow a recipe.”
I nod, glancing towards the kitchen. Now that I’ve had time to take everything in, I can see he’s started some renovations in the kitchen.
“Looks like you’ve done a bit of work,” I say.
He glances in the direction of the kitchen, shrugging. “I’ve been working remotely, and using my free time to make some updates to the place.”
“I hope you don’t do too much. This place is special.”
He nods. “Absolutely. My uncle would curse me from his grave if I didn’t honor the architecture of the house. It’s got good bones. Needs a little freshening up. The kitchen needs a little work. And I’d like to squeeze a half-bath in under the stairs. The carpet needs to go, obviously. But the stuff that makes this place a classic? I’m keeping it.”
