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“Come here,” I repeat, but my voice has dropped an octave or two.
She removes her coat and gloves and places them on a stool at the island. It’s a real pain having to remove layers every time you come inside, but I shuck mine off too.
“This isn’t necessary,” she says, but steps closer to me.
Gently, I brush back her silky hair and inspect her forehead, looking for a bump. There isn’t one, but I take my time, breathing in her scent.
She smells fresh and sweet, like a Christmas tree decorated with sugar cookies.
“I don’t see a bump,” I rasp out, feeling intoxicated by her.
It’s got to be the Mistletoe Mountains making me want to taste her lips. I knew I should’ve nixed the cabin and hid out in a van. She glances up at me, and I remind myself why I can’t bend down and plant my lips on hers.
I can’t start anything with her because I’m leaving to film a movie after the holidays. Bad timing. Either way, I step away from her like she’s lava, threatening to melt all the well-constructed walls around my heart.
“Dinner?” I hustle toward the fridge.
“Right, what are you going to cook?” She sits on a barstool, her elbows resting on the counter in front of her.
“Halibut.”
“Are you cooking it just for the halibut?” She laughs at her corny joke. “Get it? Just for the hell of it. Halibut, err nevermind.”
I crack a smile. “Yeah, I get it.” This woman is adorable.
Snow falls outside the window behind her, and I stare at the serene scene for a moment.
Rachel’s eyes follow mine to see what’s caught my attention. “Never seen snow before?” she asks in a soft voice.
“Once, when I was little.”
She stands, moving from the kitchen to the bay window in the living room, peering out at the puffy snowflakes. “It’s so peaceful when it falls.”
“You’ll be safe driving home in this, right?”
She turns to face me, a wry smile on her face. “I’ve lived in this town all my life. I’m safe to drive in anything.”
I turn my attention to preparing dinner, because a big part of me wants to hear every detail of her life, and that’s crossing major boundaries I’ve set for myself. Cooking for her doesn’t count. This dinner is just a repayment for her taking me to the store. That’s all. It’s not a wrap-the-beautiful-woman-in-your-arms-and-kiss-her-madly-because-the-Mistletoe-Mountains-have-possessed-you kind of thing.
I snag the fish from the fridge, plopping the paper wrapped halibut on the counter, thankful my assistant had the house stocked with food. While I gather the ingredients, Rachel makes herself at home, picking up my guitar and strumming the strings.
“Do you play the guitar?” she asks.
I chop an onion, adding it to the mango salsa I’m preparing. “I do. I was actually the one who taught Trinity how to play.” And she backstabbed me, so that’s a regret.
“Ah,” Rachel says and turns back to the bookshelf to browse the collection of reading material stocked by the owner of the cabin. “Do you like to read?” she asks, turning around to face the kitchen.
As she flows through the house, I watch her. Even though I shouldn’t. I can’t help it if I’m being honest. She has a glow about her.
“A little. Mainly scripts.”
“Do you read a lot of scripts?”
I chuckle low. “Actually, I don’t.” I sigh. “For a celebrity fighting to make it big, the parts are few and far between in Hollywood. With the contract for the shark movies, and how badly they bombed, no one’s knocking down my agent’s door to book me.”
“Well, they should be. You’re an amazing actor.”
I crack a smile. “Thanks. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Is cleaning houses your dream?”
She blinks up at me as I bring a pot of water to boil for the broccoli. She crosses the living room and takes the small step that leads into the kitchen. “No, it’s not.”
“What are you passionate about? Besides cheesy shark movies.” I still can’t believe there’s a group on Facebook about shark movies.
“One day, I might tell you.” She stares into the bowl of salsa and sniffs. “Smells good.”
“How am I supposed to dare you to do things if I don’t know what you’re passionate about?”
She wags a finger at me. “Oh no, mister. You can’t lay that on me.”
I laugh. “Ok, fine.” Can I dare her to kiss me? Why is it the only dare I can think of?
“It all looks so good.”
“I’ve got a dare for you,” I say, gaining her attention.
She swallows. “Ok, what is it?”
“I dare you to tell me what you’re passionate about.”
She laughs. “That’s not fair.”
I move closer, wondering if I can smell the fresh scent of her again that I’m secretly becoming addicted to. “Tell me,” I say in a husky voice.
“Why?” Her blue eyes beam up at me.
