SUMMARY:
Crystal Springfield spends the holidays by herself, in the cabin her parents used to bring her to as a child. It gives her the quiet solitude she craves during her time off. Until a tall, dark, and lost stranger gets trapped at the cabin with her by a snow storm.
Crystal soon realizes just how alone she's been all these years.
Crystal Springfield spends the holidays by herself, in the cabin her parents used to bring her to as a child. It gives her the quiet solitude she craves during her time off. Until a tall, dark, and lost stranger gets trapped at the cabin with her by a snow storm.
Crystal soon realizes just how alone she's been all these years.
LOST IN CHRISTMAS
A short holiday romance story
Snow begins to fall as I pull up to the cabin and I'm thankful I was able to stay in front of the storm headed in this direction.
I love the snow, don't get me wrong.
But I sincerely despise driving in it.
Nostalgia sets heavy inside my heart as I unpack the car. Memories overwhelm me every Christmas, when I see the old vacation home where my parents used to bring me as a child.
I'm distracted when Berkley, my seventy-pound Golden Retriever, jumps out of the car and nearly knocks me on my ass. He snaps his teeth at the tiny specks of frozen droplets falling from the sky and I can't help but giggle.
"Have at it, boy," I tell him, then I head inside to settle in.
Once everything's put away, I start on the decorating. Outside lights come first. In a few short hours, I'm sweaty, I've hammered my thumb four times, tree branches have nearly ripped my hair out and the snow is beginning to stick to the ground. I call it quits and collect Berkley for dinner.
I make a mean version of taco salad, but just as I'm getting ready to sit down and devour the food, there's a knock at my door. Berkley looks up at me expectantly while I frown.
"Dammit."
I'm not a fan of uninvited guests. Especially this far away from civilization.
The knock comes again and I have to answer it, I realize, but before I do, I kneel down to eye level with my best friend.
"Berkley?"
He tilts his head.
"Guard dog."
Berkley growls and it sounds ferocious enough, so I stand and grin. "I've taught you well, young padawan."
I review some defensive techniques I learned once upon a time—just in case—as he follows me to the door. When I open it, all is forgotten because the man standing in front of me doesn't look like a threat at all.
He's tall and looming, yes, but his face seems . . . nice. He's soft around the eyes and perfect around the lips. They move to say something but I can't hear what that is because I'm too busy noticing his broad shoulders. Not too broad, though; they're just right. I won't mention the scruffy five o'clock shadow forming along his jaw.
"Hello?"
My mouth snaps shut and I blink. "What?"
"Can I use your phone?" he asks slowly as he kicks his shoes against the stoop. He begins to take a step forward, assuming I'll say yes. Berkley lets out his version of a warning bark and I put a hand to the man's chest.
"I don't have a phone."
He laughs. "Everyone has a phone."
I push a little harder. "Not this everyone." I'm trying to stand my ground, but honestly, I'm faltering here.
"Do you have a cell phone?" he asks.
I narrow my eyes. "Yes, why?"
He pulls his out. "Because maybe your cell range is better than mine."
I try to remain strong. "Cell phones don't generally work this far up in the mountains."
He's persistent. "Think I could try anyway?"
I purse my lips.
"Please?"
He seems honest but I've seen this show before. Man plays desperate, woman falls for his boyish charm, never to be seen again.
I peek down at my dog, whose bark has always been a million times worse than his bite. The only thing this guy has to worry about is getting tackled and then subsequently licked to death. All over his face. Maybe his jawline.
He has a nice jawline.
I make a rash decision that he's indeed not a threat and open the door for him, a questionable, "sure" squeaking out.
The smallest of smiles plays at his lips when he realizes he's won. "Thanks."
He stands at the doorway as I retrieve my phone and when I hand it to him, he tries over and over again to call out, to no avail.
"Fuck."
"Told you," I say when he hands it back. "Are you lost? I can—"
"No I'm not lost." He emits a snide huff. "I just . . . need some directions."
I recognize male defensive mechanisms when I hear them. "So, lost," I reiterate with an eyebrow quirk.
"No," he insists. "The GPS on my phone is shit with the signal up here in no man's land, and I can't just drive around until it's strong again. I'm late as it is."
"I see."
Totally lost.
He grumbles, "She's gonna kill me."
I nod, disappointed, at the realization. Because of course he has a girlfriend, or wife, waiting for him somewhere. I'd be an idiot to think he didn't.
Not that I'm thinking anything about him.
I clear my throat a little. "Yes, well it's definitely rude to keep a woman waiting."
"Especially this woman," he agrees.
"I could give you directions, I've lived in this area forever. Where are you headed?"
He tells me and I get a pen and paper, then write down in great detail how he can get there. I draw a map and everything.
"Here you go, manual style GPS."
He grins at my pun. Berkley notices our friendly exchange and figures it's safe to burrow his face in between the man's legs.
"Whoa."
I try not to laugh as he struggles to keep the dog's nose out of his crotch. Then I finally save him from any further humiliation.
"Berkley." His head snaps my way and I jerk my thumb to the side, sign language for 'leave the poor guy alone.'
"Wow." He studies the map I've sketched. "This is great. Thank you."
"No problem." I walk him out to his car. At his door, he turns and stares at me for a moment, then waves. I smile and wave back. He slips safely into his car and I stay outside to watch him go. Only he doesn't. Or rather, can't. Because his tires are spinning in the snow.
I let out a heavy sigh and head out to his car. "You're only making it worse," I point out.
He guns the engine again. His tires begin to sink. When he lets off the gas, he looks tired as his head falls back and he closes his eyes.
The snow is falling at a ridiculous speed. There's no way he's getting out of my driveway tonight. I debate my next offer, but not for long. My mother raised me to be hospitable, despite my circumstances. And if he wanted to kill me, I'm fairly certain he would have by now.
I tap on the window. "You're welcome to come inside and stay the night."
He lifts his head and gives me a curious look which I quickly understand and clarify for him. "I have a guest room. Above the garage."
I point and he checks it out but makes no move to leave his car. Okay.
"Whatever," I mutter and walk away. It's when I'm almost to the front porch again that I hear his car engine turn off and the door slam shut.
"Thanks," he says with a softer tone, making his way up to the house where Berkley waits anxiously.
I pet my guard dog on his head as we enter the house and realize something. I turn, wringing my hands a bit. "Wait."
He stops immediately. I see sincerity in his eyes and I know this wasn't a bad idea. I remind my new guest with a smile, "I don't even know your name."
He steps closer to me and removes a glove. He sticks his hand out and says with a serious expression, "Scott. Baylor."
It suits him, I think, as I take his hand. It's strong and warm and I might even hold it a little longer than what's socially acceptable. I also don't care. "I'm Crystal Springfield."
He nods with a grin. I release his hand. He follows me across the living room and I show him the back staircase that leads up to the guest room.
I busy myself while he's up there, settling in. I'm nervous, jittery. I have no idea how to entertain a perfect stranger for the rest of the evening.
Once he's back downstairs he tries to call out on his phone again.
"No luck?"
He shakes his head and saves me from further awkwardness. "I'm pretty exhausted. I appreciate you letting me stay the night. I think I'm just...going up to bed."
I dip my head, slightly relieved, but a lingering overly-cautious habit of thought forces me to call after him.
"Don't sneak around too much after lights out," I warn him half-heartedly. "Berkley can sometimes get very protective."
He eyes my dog. "Sure he does." He winks at the pup and then finishes his ascent.
I stare after him until the door shuts, then I turn to Berkley. "Way to back me up."
He lets out a whine and follows me to my room, where I see myself in the mirror for the first time today. I cringe at the state I'm in after nine hours of hard labor and no brush.
This guy has probably been looking at me like I'm the threat all night. And no wonder.
I think about him through my shower despite my best efforts not to. I remember his face as I pull my pajamas on. And as I fall asleep and see the snow still falling outside, I wonder how long he'll be stuck here with me during my Christmas vacation.
* * *
The next morning, I wake to the sound of a crash followed by some curse words. If the clock at my bedside is correct, it's not even technically morning yet and I find myself whipping the blankets off, stalking to the bedroom door and flinging it open to see just exactly what the hell is going on out in the living room.
When I find Scott Baylor placing Christmas things where they don't belong, I kind of lose my mind.
"What are you doing?"
He twists around to see me. "Oh, hey." Then he goes back to doing a very bad job of decorating. "You still had a ton of shit to put up so I thought I'd, you know, help."
That's when I notice the tree. It's up. "That's not where it goes," I tell him stubbornly. He peeks over and goes right back to work.
"It seemed like as good a place as any to me."
My mouth twists in frustration at first. My father always, always put the tree in front of the window, so people could see the lights from outside. When I remember it there, I have to admit, it was a pain in the ass to maneuver around it sometimes. Okay, most times.
Maybe Scott has a point.
Actually, when I look again, the tree does look nice where he's put it.
"I guess it's fine where it is," I mutter begrudgingly. "But why—"
He shrugs and I notice again how wide his shoulders are. With a nod toward the front window, he says, "It's not like I'm going anywhere. And I needed something to pass the time while you slept in."
I glance outside and although it's finally stopped snowing, the banks look five feet tall. The roads are never getting cleared today.
"Besides, you took me in last night," he adds. "You didn't have to do that. It's the least I could do."
My shoulders slump a little, and then I realize what he just said.
"Slept in?"
"Yeah." He's unwavering.
"It's seven-fifteen."
"Exactly."
I'm ready to argue further, but based on the intentions behind what he's done, I simply go with a polite and courteous, "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
I move past him into the kitchen to make some coffee. It's when I turn and reach for some sugar that I notice him staring at me.
"Something in my teeth?" I joke but he's not laughing.
"You, um . . ." Scott tries to point, vaguely, and I look down, remembering that I didn't grab my robe on my way out of the bedroom this morning. I'm wearing my pajama bottoms and a tank.
And no bra.
"Ohmygod," I cover myself. It's too late, I know this, but I still try. And fail. Then run back to the bedroom and give Berkley, who is still sleeping next to the door, a piece of my mind for not warning me.
"No worries," he calls out. "Nothing I haven't seen before."
"Shit." I'm embarrassed. And a shiver runs up my neck when I think about him noticing me this way.
"It's no big deal," I say to myself as I pull a robe on, fluff my hair a little and straighten my posture. Then I gather up some confidence and pick up where I left off in the kitchen.
* * *
"That was phenomenal," Scott announces after breakfast. "I honestly don't know the last time I had actual homemade pancakes like that."
"Your girlfriend doesn't cook?" I'm fishing for information.
"What girlfriend?"
And now I'm confused. "You said you were meeting a woman last night."
He laughs like I've told a joke. "Yeah, my sister."
"Oh." Ohh.
Hmm.
"She's probably worried sick," he tells me, interrupting any indecent thoughts that may be forming inside my mind. "Or pissed. I should try to call her again."
He does, but again, the call fails. I feel horrible for him. It's Christmas Eve, and even though I'm perfectly fine with being alone, he seems to really want to be with his family.
"Well, you can always pass the time decorating some more," I tease, picking up another box of yuletide cheer. Scott's expression changes into something I can't read for a moment, then he nods as he looks around.
"I'm in, what's next? Tacky indoor lights? Bobble head Santas?"
I laugh because I have both. "You don't have to if you don't want to."
"I want to." He grins.
I breathe in, let it out. "Okay, first thing we have to do, though, is get some wood chopped."
"Chop wood, right." He jumps right into work mode and soon, we head outside with Berkley in tow.
Now, although I am fully capable of chopping wood, I don't generally like it. I do, however, imagine I might like watching Scott Baylor doing it. So when he takes his coat off and offers to get to it, I let him.
Even through the long-sleeved shirt he's wearing, I notice his chiseled arms and smile a little.
I do have rather a good time watching him do manual labor, but after about fifteen logs, he looks like he's getting a bit winded. I decide we need a break but I don't really want to go back inside. Suddenly, I find myself wanting to do something I haven't done in ages.
I don't know what's come over me. Maybe it's simply hanging out with this completely gorgeous, completely available, six-foot-something, tall, dark and very manly person all night and day.
Who knows.
Berkley runs up as I gather a handful of the fluffy white stuff, pack it nice and neat within my hands, and contemplate how Scott might react.
Regardless, I'm doing it. Like I said, I love the snow.
I wing the snowball at him from where I sit on a nearby log and Berkley lets out a playful woof. When the packed ball hits Scott upside his arm, he stops and looks at the mark it's left, and then at me.
I smile innocently and he drops the axe. "Really?"
He moves toward me and I try to swallow down the feeling of giddiness that look in his eyes is giving me.
Berkley runs back and forth between us.
Scott is stalking forward slowly, deliberately. I stand and back away with caution while Berkley lets out a yelp.
"Get him, boy!" I tell my dog, then make a run for it. To where, I don't know, but I'm laughing too hard to care right now.
"You will pay for that, Mrs. Springfield!" Scott yells from behind me. I can tell he's gaining on me. I can also tell maybe he's fishing for information, too.
So, I give it to him. "That's Miss Springfield, Mr. Baylor!" I scoop up another pile of snow as I run and fling it over my shoulder in a feeble attempt to slow him down.
When I'm tackled, I know I'm done for. Although Berkley is barking obligatorily at Scott, even he knows he's not going to do anything, and then the damn man starts grabbing handfuls of snow and shoving them into my coat.
I scream and laugh and try to roll out of his grasp but he's strong. Very strong.
When he stops and he's hovering over me, his eyes are bright. And he's got the most beautiful smile on his face.
Somehow, it makes me stop struggling.
All at once I notice all of the tiny details about him. How his eyes crinkle when his mouth turns up like that, as though he's done this before, somewhere else. And how the blue eyes I noticed when I first saw him have a hint of green, like now. And how very nice it feels to have his body pressed against me the way it is.
Scott seems like he wants to say something, or do something.
He doesn't, but he also makes no move to leave.
And I feel very warm despite the weather.
Just when he opens his mouth to speak, Berkley sticks his head in between us and starts licking. Everything.
"Ew! Berkley, gross!" I squeal. A sense of loss comes over me when Scott mimics my sentiments about dog slobber, pushing himself up and away from me.
"Bad dog," I scold Berkley, then apologize to Scott. "He tends to get a little excited."
"No worries. His intentions were good," he assures as he wipes the slobber from his face. Scott scoops up some snow and makes a snowball. When Berkley returns for more licks, he throws it for him as hard as he can, sending my dog running at full speed.
It's quite clear Berkley loves my stranger. I mean the stranger. He's not my stranger.
That's crazy.
I laugh and Scott notices. "What?"
Ugh. "Nothing," I reply, but he doesn't let me get away with it that easily.
"Tell me."
I admit part of my thoughts. "I was just thinking how interesting it is that Berkley likes you so much."
"Oh, yeah?"
I nod. "He doesn't generally take to new people quite this easily."
Scott looks back at the dog, now following at a slower pace behind us. "Well, he's got good taste."
I roll my eyes, laughing. "Oh, you are so smug."
We're back at the logs now and he picks up as many as he can, then asks me to stack more on top for him to carry back to the house.
"I like to call it, 'comfortable with who I am,'" he teases and I don't disagree with him. He is comfortable. And comfortable to be around. Which is proven several times throughout the rest of the day.
Back inside the cabin, we decorate and every once in a while, Scott stops to check the cell signal on his phone. I can tell he's put off about not being able to leave but he's good at pretending he's not. In fact, if I wasn't paying close attention to his facial expressions, I'd never know he was conflicted about something at all.
I've taken note of other things. He works to the beat of whatever music is playing despite the fact that he has no beat whatsoever. And he can't sing for shit but he likes to sing and that makes me laugh. A lot. He dares me to join in at one point but I know better. I can't sing for shit, either.
When he mentions he's starved, I decide to cook and he offers to help, but I refuse his assistance.
"But-"
"No buts. Go take a shower." I point up the stairs and he goes. When I can't see him anymore, I breathe and smile and try to ignore the feeling that I've known him forever.
Later, when he's cleaned up and we're done with the spaghetti I've thrown together, Scott finds a closet full of old games, the classics that my parents used to play with me when we stayed here.
He eyes Jenga and grins wide. "I haven't played this in years," he confesses.
I can't seem to bring myself to refuse him when he gives me his version of puppy dog eyes, so we play. For hours. But when the tower falls for the seventh time, I need a break and so does my back.
"Want a beer?"
His eyes light up. "Tell me it's not a lite beer and I'll love you forever."
My eyebrow raises and I blink at his words. What?
He realizes what he said and begins to correct himself. "I mean . . ." He laughs. "I didn't mean I would love you. Obviously."
"No, of course not," I manage to squeak out.
"We barely know each other."
I divert my own attention by going to get those beers I offered.
But he continues from the other room. "Even though I feel like I do know you pretty well after the past twenty-four hours."
"Me, too," I whisper as I pop open the bottles, then return to where Scott's waiting for me. He's standing now, stretching. And he seems taller than before as he looms over me with those deep blue eyes of his.
I hand him his drink and he refuses to break our stare.
"You're a gracious host, Crystal Springfield." He takes a long drink and I can't stop watching him. Truth be told, I haven't been able to stop watching him since he arrived and I don't know what it means.
I'm lying. I know exactly what it means, I'm just not sure how I feel about it.
I finally take a swig of my own beer. I need it. The air has become thick between us and I'm feeling heated underneath my skin.
Scott seems as though he might want to say something. His expression resembles the same one he had earlier, in the snow. Just when I think I might know what he wants to tell me, he proves me wrong.
"Well," he says, after finishing the drink in his hands. "I guess it's time for me to go to bed." His voice is low and his eyes burn through me.
I open my mouth to stop him but think better of it. Nothing good can come from doing something bad with this man. I imagine it would be completely satisfying on so many levels—for now—but then what?
"Okay," I whisper.
I take his beer and he starts to help clean up. "It's okay, I'll take care of it," I say. I can't have him this close to me.
Scott nods and disappears up the back staircase to the guest room, never looking back.
I think I might actually hate myself right now for letting him go. I blow out a breath and set the empty bottles on the kitchen counter. I get my mother's Judy Garland record out and start it by playing my favorite song on the album, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."
I put things away, wash dishes, wipe the counter, and then sit by the window and gaze out at the tracks we left in the snow earlier. A creak startles me, and when I turn to see if it's Berkley getting into something, Scott is standing at the bottom of the stairs.
He's in pajama bottoms and nothing else. It's a nice look on him, but then again, what isn't with Scott Baylor?
"Sorry," he murmurs softly. "I heard something and thought-"
"Just finishing up," I say, but he doesn't go back upstairs this time. He joins me by the window.
"Sure looks peaceful, doesn't it?" he asks. He's so close to me that I can feel him breathing.
I sense the heat between us. But as I turn and see him staring down at me, the lights flicker and die.
"Shit."
"Seriously?" Scott muses.
"It happens," I sigh. "The weight of the snow on the power lines takes a toll. It's done this at least three times since I've been coming here."
I make my way through the dark to get candles out as Scott grabs some of the logs we cut earlier and stacked on the porch. I spread lit candles throughout the room while Scott starts a fire. I watch him as the flames grow, and when he's satisfied with it, he abandons his post and comes to me.
I imagine knowing him longer. I imagine him asking me out, or me asking him. Whichever. And I want to kiss him. I want to do more than kiss him, because he's everything I needed this weekend. And I didn't even know it.
"You should sleep out here, the fire will keep you warm enough," he says softly, and when he starts to leave, I grab his hand.
"Maybe you shouldn't stay up in the guest room tonight."
He looks surprised by what I've said and even I can't believe I just put the offer out there, but this is me not wanting to hate myself for letting him go up those damn stairs again.
"Maybe?" A grin forms along his lips. He pushes a stray hair away from my face. "Because if you're not sure—"
"No, I'm sure." I want to purr at the feel of his hand as it settles on my waist. It's quite possible I actually do when I insist, "You definitely shouldn't."
"Crystal, I—"
"Scott."
"Yeah?"
"Stop talking."
He cups my face and his thumb brushes my cheek. Then I rise on tiptoe and put my lips on his.
I was right about his lips. They're perfect and soft, and they know exactly what they're doing as they move against mine.
My fingers tread lightly. They explore his chest, his stomach, his hips. His hands tug gently at my top. I make a noise that's foreign to me, but I can't be bothered to feel embarrassed. Scott reacts but moves with slow purpose, as though he wants to take in every moment of this carefully. In contrast, I feel like I can't move fast enough.
"Take this off," he murmurs, grazing his fingers along the sides of my shirt. I remove it, and then my bra, and when he steps closer, my breath catches. He caresses me with the gentlest of touches and the sweetest of kisses, whispering things that make me want him even more.
"You're beautiful," he tells me as he guides me to the couch, and I believe him.
He hovers over me as I lay on the cushions, moving a hand between my legs, creating the kind of heat I don't remember experiencing before. My eyes close when his lips are on me again. He kisses my neck, behind my ear, along my collarbone, leaving goosebumps in his wake. My hands settle on his hips and pull him closer.
I crave him. I want him.
I want this.
Scott answers my quiet plea when he slides into me, and for that moment, he's all I see. All I feel.
I grab hold of him tightly as he pushes and rocks and kisses me hard. His tongue is like silk.
I moan. I thrust. I demand more. "That feels—"
"I know," he breathes. Moving deliberately, he stares into my eyes and I give myself to him fully. He anticipates what I need, angling my body to get where I want him to be. Over and over. And over again.
My entire body tightens as he sends me over the edge. The perfect mixture of ache and elation floods through me. I'm lightheaded and winded and I have to remember to breathe afterward.
I'm nearly spent when Scott lets out a gritty, "Fuck."
Though I hold him tight, his thrusts slow. He's deep inside of me when I sense his frustration and suddenly I can guess what he must be contemplating.
"Don't stop," I beg.
He looks into my eyes. "Are you sure?"
I nod and tell him, quietly, "I'm protected."
Scott gets what I'm saying and when our lips meet, he kisses me hard. He whispers words against my skin, like 'exquisite' and 'perfect.' And in his arms, I'm both of these things.
He grabs the cushion beside my head and fists it as he comes, yet after his energy is drained, he still finds a way to pepper soft kisses along my collarbone, up my jaw, until he finds my lips again.
I want so much more of him. I need more of him. And maybe he needs me, too.
As he rolls onto his side, Scott hugs me into him and I let it happen. It feels good and right, being here like this with him.
"That was . . ." he trails off, breathing hard, obviously looking for the right words to say.
"Like Christmas," I finish for him without thinking.
He chuckles beside me. "Like what?"
"I know, cheesy," I admit, heat rushing to my cheeks.
He presses his lips to my forehead. "I happen to love cheese," he jokes.
I lean up and kiss his chest, his neck, and then finally, his lips. "Thank you," I quietly murmur. His brow crinkles when I say it.
"For?"
I tell him honestly, "For needing directions."
* * *
We spend the rest of the night wrapped up in blankets and each other. We talk and laugh and tell each other our stories.
I fall asleep sometime before dawn, and it's not until very late in the day on Christmas that I wake up and realize the power is back, and Scott is gone.
There's a note saying he got a signal, spoke to his sister, and had to go. Outside, there's a shovel leaning against the railing and I see where the entire driveway has been dug out.
Berkley whines by the front door. I scratch his head lazily. "I know, boy."
I busy myself throughout the rest of the day to avoid missing Scott. I shower, cook, put old records on and tell myself it just wasn't meant to be.
Later, when the sky is dark, I light some candles and pull a book off the shelf, but I can't read. It's too quiet.
A knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts. I'm wondering how many people are going to get lost this year when I open the door and see him standing there.
"These didn't take me where I needed to be," he says, holding a piece of paper out for me to take.
I look down to see the map I drew for him two nights ago. It only takes a moment to realize what he's saying.
I look back up to Scott and smile, opening the door wide to let him in.
A short holiday romance story
Snow begins to fall as I pull up to the cabin and I'm thankful I was able to stay in front of the storm headed in this direction.
I love the snow, don't get me wrong.
But I sincerely despise driving in it.
Nostalgia sets heavy inside my heart as I unpack the car. Memories overwhelm me every Christmas, when I see the old vacation home where my parents used to bring me as a child.
I'm distracted when Berkley, my seventy-pound Golden Retriever, jumps out of the car and nearly knocks me on my ass. He snaps his teeth at the tiny specks of frozen droplets falling from the sky and I can't help but giggle.
"Have at it, boy," I tell him, then I head inside to settle in.
Once everything's put away, I start on the decorating. Outside lights come first. In a few short hours, I'm sweaty, I've hammered my thumb four times, tree branches have nearly ripped my hair out and the snow is beginning to stick to the ground. I call it quits and collect Berkley for dinner.
I make a mean version of taco salad, but just as I'm getting ready to sit down and devour the food, there's a knock at my door. Berkley looks up at me expectantly while I frown.
"Dammit."
I'm not a fan of uninvited guests. Especially this far away from civilization.
The knock comes again and I have to answer it, I realize, but before I do, I kneel down to eye level with my best friend.
"Berkley?"
He tilts his head.
"Guard dog."
Berkley growls and it sounds ferocious enough, so I stand and grin. "I've taught you well, young padawan."
I review some defensive techniques I learned once upon a time—just in case—as he follows me to the door. When I open it, all is forgotten because the man standing in front of me doesn't look like a threat at all.
He's tall and looming, yes, but his face seems . . . nice. He's soft around the eyes and perfect around the lips. They move to say something but I can't hear what that is because I'm too busy noticing his broad shoulders. Not too broad, though; they're just right. I won't mention the scruffy five o'clock shadow forming along his jaw.
"Hello?"
My mouth snaps shut and I blink. "What?"
"Can I use your phone?" he asks slowly as he kicks his shoes against the stoop. He begins to take a step forward, assuming I'll say yes. Berkley lets out his version of a warning bark and I put a hand to the man's chest.
"I don't have a phone."
He laughs. "Everyone has a phone."
I push a little harder. "Not this everyone." I'm trying to stand my ground, but honestly, I'm faltering here.
"Do you have a cell phone?" he asks.
I narrow my eyes. "Yes, why?"
He pulls his out. "Because maybe your cell range is better than mine."
I try to remain strong. "Cell phones don't generally work this far up in the mountains."
He's persistent. "Think I could try anyway?"
I purse my lips.
"Please?"
He seems honest but I've seen this show before. Man plays desperate, woman falls for his boyish charm, never to be seen again.
I peek down at my dog, whose bark has always been a million times worse than his bite. The only thing this guy has to worry about is getting tackled and then subsequently licked to death. All over his face. Maybe his jawline.
He has a nice jawline.
I make a rash decision that he's indeed not a threat and open the door for him, a questionable, "sure" squeaking out.
The smallest of smiles plays at his lips when he realizes he's won. "Thanks."
He stands at the doorway as I retrieve my phone and when I hand it to him, he tries over and over again to call out, to no avail.
"Fuck."
"Told you," I say when he hands it back. "Are you lost? I can—"
"No I'm not lost." He emits a snide huff. "I just . . . need some directions."
I recognize male defensive mechanisms when I hear them. "So, lost," I reiterate with an eyebrow quirk.
"No," he insists. "The GPS on my phone is shit with the signal up here in no man's land, and I can't just drive around until it's strong again. I'm late as it is."
"I see."
Totally lost.
He grumbles, "She's gonna kill me."
I nod, disappointed, at the realization. Because of course he has a girlfriend, or wife, waiting for him somewhere. I'd be an idiot to think he didn't.
Not that I'm thinking anything about him.
I clear my throat a little. "Yes, well it's definitely rude to keep a woman waiting."
"Especially this woman," he agrees.
"I could give you directions, I've lived in this area forever. Where are you headed?"
He tells me and I get a pen and paper, then write down in great detail how he can get there. I draw a map and everything.
"Here you go, manual style GPS."
He grins at my pun. Berkley notices our friendly exchange and figures it's safe to burrow his face in between the man's legs.
"Whoa."
I try not to laugh as he struggles to keep the dog's nose out of his crotch. Then I finally save him from any further humiliation.
"Berkley." His head snaps my way and I jerk my thumb to the side, sign language for 'leave the poor guy alone.'
"Wow." He studies the map I've sketched. "This is great. Thank you."
"No problem." I walk him out to his car. At his door, he turns and stares at me for a moment, then waves. I smile and wave back. He slips safely into his car and I stay outside to watch him go. Only he doesn't. Or rather, can't. Because his tires are spinning in the snow.
I let out a heavy sigh and head out to his car. "You're only making it worse," I point out.
He guns the engine again. His tires begin to sink. When he lets off the gas, he looks tired as his head falls back and he closes his eyes.
The snow is falling at a ridiculous speed. There's no way he's getting out of my driveway tonight. I debate my next offer, but not for long. My mother raised me to be hospitable, despite my circumstances. And if he wanted to kill me, I'm fairly certain he would have by now.
I tap on the window. "You're welcome to come inside and stay the night."
He lifts his head and gives me a curious look which I quickly understand and clarify for him. "I have a guest room. Above the garage."
I point and he checks it out but makes no move to leave his car. Okay.
"Whatever," I mutter and walk away. It's when I'm almost to the front porch again that I hear his car engine turn off and the door slam shut.
"Thanks," he says with a softer tone, making his way up to the house where Berkley waits anxiously.
I pet my guard dog on his head as we enter the house and realize something. I turn, wringing my hands a bit. "Wait."
He stops immediately. I see sincerity in his eyes and I know this wasn't a bad idea. I remind my new guest with a smile, "I don't even know your name."
He steps closer to me and removes a glove. He sticks his hand out and says with a serious expression, "Scott. Baylor."
It suits him, I think, as I take his hand. It's strong and warm and I might even hold it a little longer than what's socially acceptable. I also don't care. "I'm Crystal Springfield."
He nods with a grin. I release his hand. He follows me across the living room and I show him the back staircase that leads up to the guest room.
I busy myself while he's up there, settling in. I'm nervous, jittery. I have no idea how to entertain a perfect stranger for the rest of the evening.
Once he's back downstairs he tries to call out on his phone again.
"No luck?"
He shakes his head and saves me from further awkwardness. "I'm pretty exhausted. I appreciate you letting me stay the night. I think I'm just...going up to bed."
I dip my head, slightly relieved, but a lingering overly-cautious habit of thought forces me to call after him.
"Don't sneak around too much after lights out," I warn him half-heartedly. "Berkley can sometimes get very protective."
He eyes my dog. "Sure he does." He winks at the pup and then finishes his ascent.
I stare after him until the door shuts, then I turn to Berkley. "Way to back me up."
He lets out a whine and follows me to my room, where I see myself in the mirror for the first time today. I cringe at the state I'm in after nine hours of hard labor and no brush.
This guy has probably been looking at me like I'm the threat all night. And no wonder.
I think about him through my shower despite my best efforts not to. I remember his face as I pull my pajamas on. And as I fall asleep and see the snow still falling outside, I wonder how long he'll be stuck here with me during my Christmas vacation.
* * *
The next morning, I wake to the sound of a crash followed by some curse words. If the clock at my bedside is correct, it's not even technically morning yet and I find myself whipping the blankets off, stalking to the bedroom door and flinging it open to see just exactly what the hell is going on out in the living room.
When I find Scott Baylor placing Christmas things where they don't belong, I kind of lose my mind.
"What are you doing?"
He twists around to see me. "Oh, hey." Then he goes back to doing a very bad job of decorating. "You still had a ton of shit to put up so I thought I'd, you know, help."
That's when I notice the tree. It's up. "That's not where it goes," I tell him stubbornly. He peeks over and goes right back to work.
"It seemed like as good a place as any to me."
My mouth twists in frustration at first. My father always, always put the tree in front of the window, so people could see the lights from outside. When I remember it there, I have to admit, it was a pain in the ass to maneuver around it sometimes. Okay, most times.
Maybe Scott has a point.
Actually, when I look again, the tree does look nice where he's put it.
"I guess it's fine where it is," I mutter begrudgingly. "But why—"
He shrugs and I notice again how wide his shoulders are. With a nod toward the front window, he says, "It's not like I'm going anywhere. And I needed something to pass the time while you slept in."
I glance outside and although it's finally stopped snowing, the banks look five feet tall. The roads are never getting cleared today.
"Besides, you took me in last night," he adds. "You didn't have to do that. It's the least I could do."
My shoulders slump a little, and then I realize what he just said.
"Slept in?"
"Yeah." He's unwavering.
"It's seven-fifteen."
"Exactly."
I'm ready to argue further, but based on the intentions behind what he's done, I simply go with a polite and courteous, "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
I move past him into the kitchen to make some coffee. It's when I turn and reach for some sugar that I notice him staring at me.
"Something in my teeth?" I joke but he's not laughing.
"You, um . . ." Scott tries to point, vaguely, and I look down, remembering that I didn't grab my robe on my way out of the bedroom this morning. I'm wearing my pajama bottoms and a tank.
And no bra.
"Ohmygod," I cover myself. It's too late, I know this, but I still try. And fail. Then run back to the bedroom and give Berkley, who is still sleeping next to the door, a piece of my mind for not warning me.
"No worries," he calls out. "Nothing I haven't seen before."
"Shit." I'm embarrassed. And a shiver runs up my neck when I think about him noticing me this way.
"It's no big deal," I say to myself as I pull a robe on, fluff my hair a little and straighten my posture. Then I gather up some confidence and pick up where I left off in the kitchen.
* * *
"That was phenomenal," Scott announces after breakfast. "I honestly don't know the last time I had actual homemade pancakes like that."
"Your girlfriend doesn't cook?" I'm fishing for information.
"What girlfriend?"
And now I'm confused. "You said you were meeting a woman last night."
He laughs like I've told a joke. "Yeah, my sister."
"Oh." Ohh.
Hmm.
"She's probably worried sick," he tells me, interrupting any indecent thoughts that may be forming inside my mind. "Or pissed. I should try to call her again."
He does, but again, the call fails. I feel horrible for him. It's Christmas Eve, and even though I'm perfectly fine with being alone, he seems to really want to be with his family.
"Well, you can always pass the time decorating some more," I tease, picking up another box of yuletide cheer. Scott's expression changes into something I can't read for a moment, then he nods as he looks around.
"I'm in, what's next? Tacky indoor lights? Bobble head Santas?"
I laugh because I have both. "You don't have to if you don't want to."
"I want to." He grins.
I breathe in, let it out. "Okay, first thing we have to do, though, is get some wood chopped."
"Chop wood, right." He jumps right into work mode and soon, we head outside with Berkley in tow.
Now, although I am fully capable of chopping wood, I don't generally like it. I do, however, imagine I might like watching Scott Baylor doing it. So when he takes his coat off and offers to get to it, I let him.
Even through the long-sleeved shirt he's wearing, I notice his chiseled arms and smile a little.
I do have rather a good time watching him do manual labor, but after about fifteen logs, he looks like he's getting a bit winded. I decide we need a break but I don't really want to go back inside. Suddenly, I find myself wanting to do something I haven't done in ages.
I don't know what's come over me. Maybe it's simply hanging out with this completely gorgeous, completely available, six-foot-something, tall, dark and very manly person all night and day.
Who knows.
Berkley runs up as I gather a handful of the fluffy white stuff, pack it nice and neat within my hands, and contemplate how Scott might react.
Regardless, I'm doing it. Like I said, I love the snow.
I wing the snowball at him from where I sit on a nearby log and Berkley lets out a playful woof. When the packed ball hits Scott upside his arm, he stops and looks at the mark it's left, and then at me.
I smile innocently and he drops the axe. "Really?"
He moves toward me and I try to swallow down the feeling of giddiness that look in his eyes is giving me.
Berkley runs back and forth between us.
Scott is stalking forward slowly, deliberately. I stand and back away with caution while Berkley lets out a yelp.
"Get him, boy!" I tell my dog, then make a run for it. To where, I don't know, but I'm laughing too hard to care right now.
"You will pay for that, Mrs. Springfield!" Scott yells from behind me. I can tell he's gaining on me. I can also tell maybe he's fishing for information, too.
So, I give it to him. "That's Miss Springfield, Mr. Baylor!" I scoop up another pile of snow as I run and fling it over my shoulder in a feeble attempt to slow him down.
When I'm tackled, I know I'm done for. Although Berkley is barking obligatorily at Scott, even he knows he's not going to do anything, and then the damn man starts grabbing handfuls of snow and shoving them into my coat.
I scream and laugh and try to roll out of his grasp but he's strong. Very strong.
When he stops and he's hovering over me, his eyes are bright. And he's got the most beautiful smile on his face.
Somehow, it makes me stop struggling.
All at once I notice all of the tiny details about him. How his eyes crinkle when his mouth turns up like that, as though he's done this before, somewhere else. And how the blue eyes I noticed when I first saw him have a hint of green, like now. And how very nice it feels to have his body pressed against me the way it is.
Scott seems like he wants to say something, or do something.
He doesn't, but he also makes no move to leave.
And I feel very warm despite the weather.
Just when he opens his mouth to speak, Berkley sticks his head in between us and starts licking. Everything.
"Ew! Berkley, gross!" I squeal. A sense of loss comes over me when Scott mimics my sentiments about dog slobber, pushing himself up and away from me.
"Bad dog," I scold Berkley, then apologize to Scott. "He tends to get a little excited."
"No worries. His intentions were good," he assures as he wipes the slobber from his face. Scott scoops up some snow and makes a snowball. When Berkley returns for more licks, he throws it for him as hard as he can, sending my dog running at full speed.
It's quite clear Berkley loves my stranger. I mean the stranger. He's not my stranger.
That's crazy.
I laugh and Scott notices. "What?"
Ugh. "Nothing," I reply, but he doesn't let me get away with it that easily.
"Tell me."
I admit part of my thoughts. "I was just thinking how interesting it is that Berkley likes you so much."
"Oh, yeah?"
I nod. "He doesn't generally take to new people quite this easily."
Scott looks back at the dog, now following at a slower pace behind us. "Well, he's got good taste."
I roll my eyes, laughing. "Oh, you are so smug."
We're back at the logs now and he picks up as many as he can, then asks me to stack more on top for him to carry back to the house.
"I like to call it, 'comfortable with who I am,'" he teases and I don't disagree with him. He is comfortable. And comfortable to be around. Which is proven several times throughout the rest of the day.
Back inside the cabin, we decorate and every once in a while, Scott stops to check the cell signal on his phone. I can tell he's put off about not being able to leave but he's good at pretending he's not. In fact, if I wasn't paying close attention to his facial expressions, I'd never know he was conflicted about something at all.
I've taken note of other things. He works to the beat of whatever music is playing despite the fact that he has no beat whatsoever. And he can't sing for shit but he likes to sing and that makes me laugh. A lot. He dares me to join in at one point but I know better. I can't sing for shit, either.
When he mentions he's starved, I decide to cook and he offers to help, but I refuse his assistance.
"But-"
"No buts. Go take a shower." I point up the stairs and he goes. When I can't see him anymore, I breathe and smile and try to ignore the feeling that I've known him forever.
Later, when he's cleaned up and we're done with the spaghetti I've thrown together, Scott finds a closet full of old games, the classics that my parents used to play with me when we stayed here.
He eyes Jenga and grins wide. "I haven't played this in years," he confesses.
I can't seem to bring myself to refuse him when he gives me his version of puppy dog eyes, so we play. For hours. But when the tower falls for the seventh time, I need a break and so does my back.
"Want a beer?"
His eyes light up. "Tell me it's not a lite beer and I'll love you forever."
My eyebrow raises and I blink at his words. What?
He realizes what he said and begins to correct himself. "I mean . . ." He laughs. "I didn't mean I would love you. Obviously."
"No, of course not," I manage to squeak out.
"We barely know each other."
I divert my own attention by going to get those beers I offered.
But he continues from the other room. "Even though I feel like I do know you pretty well after the past twenty-four hours."
"Me, too," I whisper as I pop open the bottles, then return to where Scott's waiting for me. He's standing now, stretching. And he seems taller than before as he looms over me with those deep blue eyes of his.
I hand him his drink and he refuses to break our stare.
"You're a gracious host, Crystal Springfield." He takes a long drink and I can't stop watching him. Truth be told, I haven't been able to stop watching him since he arrived and I don't know what it means.
I'm lying. I know exactly what it means, I'm just not sure how I feel about it.
I finally take a swig of my own beer. I need it. The air has become thick between us and I'm feeling heated underneath my skin.
Scott seems as though he might want to say something. His expression resembles the same one he had earlier, in the snow. Just when I think I might know what he wants to tell me, he proves me wrong.
"Well," he says, after finishing the drink in his hands. "I guess it's time for me to go to bed." His voice is low and his eyes burn through me.
I open my mouth to stop him but think better of it. Nothing good can come from doing something bad with this man. I imagine it would be completely satisfying on so many levels—for now—but then what?
"Okay," I whisper.
I take his beer and he starts to help clean up. "It's okay, I'll take care of it," I say. I can't have him this close to me.
Scott nods and disappears up the back staircase to the guest room, never looking back.
I think I might actually hate myself right now for letting him go. I blow out a breath and set the empty bottles on the kitchen counter. I get my mother's Judy Garland record out and start it by playing my favorite song on the album, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."
I put things away, wash dishes, wipe the counter, and then sit by the window and gaze out at the tracks we left in the snow earlier. A creak startles me, and when I turn to see if it's Berkley getting into something, Scott is standing at the bottom of the stairs.
He's in pajama bottoms and nothing else. It's a nice look on him, but then again, what isn't with Scott Baylor?
"Sorry," he murmurs softly. "I heard something and thought-"
"Just finishing up," I say, but he doesn't go back upstairs this time. He joins me by the window.
"Sure looks peaceful, doesn't it?" he asks. He's so close to me that I can feel him breathing.
I sense the heat between us. But as I turn and see him staring down at me, the lights flicker and die.
"Shit."
"Seriously?" Scott muses.
"It happens," I sigh. "The weight of the snow on the power lines takes a toll. It's done this at least three times since I've been coming here."
I make my way through the dark to get candles out as Scott grabs some of the logs we cut earlier and stacked on the porch. I spread lit candles throughout the room while Scott starts a fire. I watch him as the flames grow, and when he's satisfied with it, he abandons his post and comes to me.
I imagine knowing him longer. I imagine him asking me out, or me asking him. Whichever. And I want to kiss him. I want to do more than kiss him, because he's everything I needed this weekend. And I didn't even know it.
"You should sleep out here, the fire will keep you warm enough," he says softly, and when he starts to leave, I grab his hand.
"Maybe you shouldn't stay up in the guest room tonight."
He looks surprised by what I've said and even I can't believe I just put the offer out there, but this is me not wanting to hate myself for letting him go up those damn stairs again.
"Maybe?" A grin forms along his lips. He pushes a stray hair away from my face. "Because if you're not sure—"
"No, I'm sure." I want to purr at the feel of his hand as it settles on my waist. It's quite possible I actually do when I insist, "You definitely shouldn't."
"Crystal, I—"
"Scott."
"Yeah?"
"Stop talking."
He cups my face and his thumb brushes my cheek. Then I rise on tiptoe and put my lips on his.
I was right about his lips. They're perfect and soft, and they know exactly what they're doing as they move against mine.
My fingers tread lightly. They explore his chest, his stomach, his hips. His hands tug gently at my top. I make a noise that's foreign to me, but I can't be bothered to feel embarrassed. Scott reacts but moves with slow purpose, as though he wants to take in every moment of this carefully. In contrast, I feel like I can't move fast enough.
"Take this off," he murmurs, grazing his fingers along the sides of my shirt. I remove it, and then my bra, and when he steps closer, my breath catches. He caresses me with the gentlest of touches and the sweetest of kisses, whispering things that make me want him even more.
"You're beautiful," he tells me as he guides me to the couch, and I believe him.
He hovers over me as I lay on the cushions, moving a hand between my legs, creating the kind of heat I don't remember experiencing before. My eyes close when his lips are on me again. He kisses my neck, behind my ear, along my collarbone, leaving goosebumps in his wake. My hands settle on his hips and pull him closer.
I crave him. I want him.
I want this.
Scott answers my quiet plea when he slides into me, and for that moment, he's all I see. All I feel.
I grab hold of him tightly as he pushes and rocks and kisses me hard. His tongue is like silk.
I moan. I thrust. I demand more. "That feels—"
"I know," he breathes. Moving deliberately, he stares into my eyes and I give myself to him fully. He anticipates what I need, angling my body to get where I want him to be. Over and over. And over again.
My entire body tightens as he sends me over the edge. The perfect mixture of ache and elation floods through me. I'm lightheaded and winded and I have to remember to breathe afterward.
I'm nearly spent when Scott lets out a gritty, "Fuck."
Though I hold him tight, his thrusts slow. He's deep inside of me when I sense his frustration and suddenly I can guess what he must be contemplating.
"Don't stop," I beg.
He looks into my eyes. "Are you sure?"
I nod and tell him, quietly, "I'm protected."
Scott gets what I'm saying and when our lips meet, he kisses me hard. He whispers words against my skin, like 'exquisite' and 'perfect.' And in his arms, I'm both of these things.
He grabs the cushion beside my head and fists it as he comes, yet after his energy is drained, he still finds a way to pepper soft kisses along my collarbone, up my jaw, until he finds my lips again.
I want so much more of him. I need more of him. And maybe he needs me, too.
As he rolls onto his side, Scott hugs me into him and I let it happen. It feels good and right, being here like this with him.
"That was . . ." he trails off, breathing hard, obviously looking for the right words to say.
"Like Christmas," I finish for him without thinking.
He chuckles beside me. "Like what?"
"I know, cheesy," I admit, heat rushing to my cheeks.
He presses his lips to my forehead. "I happen to love cheese," he jokes.
I lean up and kiss his chest, his neck, and then finally, his lips. "Thank you," I quietly murmur. His brow crinkles when I say it.
"For?"
I tell him honestly, "For needing directions."
* * *
We spend the rest of the night wrapped up in blankets and each other. We talk and laugh and tell each other our stories.
I fall asleep sometime before dawn, and it's not until very late in the day on Christmas that I wake up and realize the power is back, and Scott is gone.
There's a note saying he got a signal, spoke to his sister, and had to go. Outside, there's a shovel leaning against the railing and I see where the entire driveway has been dug out.
Berkley whines by the front door. I scratch his head lazily. "I know, boy."
I busy myself throughout the rest of the day to avoid missing Scott. I shower, cook, put old records on and tell myself it just wasn't meant to be.
Later, when the sky is dark, I light some candles and pull a book off the shelf, but I can't read. It's too quiet.
A knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts. I'm wondering how many people are going to get lost this year when I open the door and see him standing there.
"These didn't take me where I needed to be," he says, holding a piece of paper out for me to take.
I look down to see the map I drew for him two nights ago. It only takes a moment to realize what he's saying.
I look back up to Scott and smile, opening the door wide to let him in.
