Christmas at Fox Ridge

4. Eira

Chapter four

Eira

December 20

W hite knuckling the steering wheel, I creep along a snow-covered road surrounded by nothing but trees. In a way, it’s akin to the city, where high-rises tower on either side. Both equally claustrophobic and intimidating. I might have to call Holly and let her know I’m holed up here until spring, because the idea of facing this road again makes my palms sweat.

Braking outside a sturdy metal gate, I blindly feel around on the passenger seat for my phone to confirm the address is correct. If I’m going to die out here, I’d rather it not be from my own stupidity, like being shot while accidentally trespassing.

Stepping outside, I take my first breath of frosty mountain air. Ice particles fill my lungs until they hurt in a way that’s reminiscent of over-inflating them with helium at elementary school soccer wrap-up parties. My chest aches, and I cough a little as I approach the metal gate.

With a bone-chilling squeal, the gate swings open, and I’m officially on the property.

Lucas McKinney’s property, specifically.

But that doesn’t matter. He’s not what I’m here for. I have a car loaded with groceries, art supplies, and comfy clothes. A cozy log cabin with a bathtub I can stay forever in. And five days of flitting about a quaint cabin, pretending to be Cameron Diaz in The Holiday —sans Jude Law, because I’m desperately in need of a break from the dating scene.

I squint down at the instructions from Holly for the fortieth time, shaking my head. When she told me about the woodstove, a tiny, independent-woman roar sounded in my chest.

I can handle putting a few logs on the fire.

No problem .

By the time I finished lugging my stuff inside—trekking through snow that spilled overtop the cute new Ugg boots I bought for this trip—I was sweating. Cooking a frozen pizza for dinner heated the tiny cabin even more. But shortly after sunset, a deep freeze set in, and my fingers became too frigid to continue my commissioned book cover illustration. And that’s when I realized my mistake.

Big problem.

“Fucking Holly,” I mutter under my breath, flicking the barbecue lighter and holding the orange flame to a piece of crumpled newspaper until it catches.

Just like every other fucking time, the newspaper burns up in a flash, and there’s no sign of fire except a tease of charring on the chunks of wood I stuffed inside the cast iron chamber. I exhale, sinking back on my heels, and shut my eyes to think.

There isn’t a single bone in my born-and-bred city girl body that can handle this shit. I fully accept that I won’t last a single day in an apocalypse. There was never a moment while reading the Dear Canada series as a child when I thought, “Huh, I’d love to live in a different century.” I’m built for electricity, candy cane flat whites, the internet, and good skincare products.

And since the world hates me, there’s no cell service here. I’m left to fend for myself like an 1800s Protestant spinster, braving the cold in this house alone because no man will find me worthy of marriage now. Twenty-eight, not a virgin. Shame.

Okay, maybe that’s a touch dramatic.

Anyway …

I can’t be cold if I’m submerged to my chin in a piping-hot bath. And since this isn’t the 1800s, I have hot water straight from the tap. No fire required.

The bathroom’s small but, like the rest of the cabin, it’s tastefully renovated. An antique charm still exists in the rich hardwood floors, stunning wood furniture, and muted colours used throughout. It’s something I’m sure I’ve seen on the accounts my friends are constantly reposting on their feeds—the type of influencer who wears linen dresses, collects farm-fresh eggs with a baby on her hip, and bakes sourdough bread.

Thankfully, the tap water turns hot almost instantly, and within minutes, I’m sinking into a bubble bath that thaws my frozen bone marrow.

And that’s where I stay. Drawing on my tablet. Reading a book. Staring into space. Refilling with hot water whenever it cools off too much for my liking. Cursing my best friend.

Until sometime hours later, when my eyelids are heavy and every blink is in slow motion, and I reluctantly drag myself from the tub. It’s a fight to pull on my clothes, thanks to violently shivering limbs and damp skin.

My teeth chatter, and I grab every clothing item from my suitcase, debating whether it would be best to cut my losses and head home. Soon I’m looking like the younger brother from A Christmas Story when he’s stuffed into that snowsuit he can barely move in. Multiple pairs of pants, three sweaters, a scarf up to my nose, and a hat pulled as low as I can get it.

And for a few moments, I lie in bed, unable to get comfortable thanks to the four different waistbands creeping up my stomach in a bizarro arms-race.

“Fuck this. I’m waking him up.”

The deal was not to bother Lucas, but looking out the window and seeing a truck parked outside has me slipping into my boots without question. There aren’t any lights on in the house, but this feels like enough of an emergency to warrant waking him up. After all, it wouldn’t be a good look for his new vacation rental to have a girl die on night one—though he’d be able to tap into the ghost hunter and “spooky girl” market, I guess.

Snow swirls around in the wind, and I trudge slowly through dense snow. Absent of a moon, the inky sky provides no light, so I hold my phone out with a shivering grasp to illuminate my path to Lucas’s house. The porch stairs groan under my weight, and the light rap on his front door makes my knuckles sting.

The wind has me pawing at loose strands of hair falling over my face, and I inhale sharply through my teeth before knocking again. Harder this time.

Nothing.

I shuffle sideways to peer in the living room window. No lights. No Christmas decorations. No clutter. Nothing. It’s as if nobody lives here at all.

When the heel of my hand slamming into the wooden door doesn’t garner a response, I groan and turn back toward the cabin.

Then angels sing.

Okay, not quite. But somebody is stomping their way downstairs. The yellowed porch light flickers on, temporarily blinding me, and the front door swings open with a gruff, “ What?”

There he is. Wearing nothing but a pair of charcoal boxer briefs slung low on his hips. Hair disheveled, coarse stubble grown in thick along his jaw, and a snarl on his lip. And as thankful as I am for the opportunity to see him again, this initial reaction to having somebody at his door is exactly why I didn’t come over earlier.

“It’s the middle of the night,” he growls, not bothering to look at me as he rubs his eyes. “The hell do you need?”

I tug at the clothes that are suddenly incredibly tight and hot. “Um… The uh… I can’t get a fire lit.”

Taking me in, he clears his throat, brusque demeanour changing in an instant. “ Doodlebug? What the— You’re staying here? Why didn’t Holly tell me you’re… Shit, come inside.”

His large palm falls to my arm—not that I can feel it through all the padding—and Lucas tugs me into the warm house. Now we’re standing in the small entryway, neither saying a word. His house smells like wood fire and vanilla. Like him. It’s cozy, and rustic, and clean.

“So…” I smack my lips. “I didn’t mean to bug you. Holly told me to stay out of your hair, but I couldn’t get a fire lit, and I took a bath but eventually started falling asleep, and I didn’t think you’d want a corpse in your new rental cabin. Also, dying in the bathtub? I know that’s how a lot of celebrities go out, but the last thing I need is somebody finding me dead and naked —likely in the most unflattering angle, too. So I thought you’d rather be woken up once tonight than by my ghost every night for the rest of eternity.”

I inhale deeply as my rambling slows.

His eyebrows cinch together. “You’ve been in the cabin all day without heat? Why didn’t you come over here earlier?”

“Holly said you’ve been stressed, and you didn’t want anything to do with your rental guests. So I thought—”

“That doesn’t apply to you, Eira.” He tugs at my silk scarf, unraveling it from my neck. “You should’ve known that.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” I say as Lucas pulls my toque off and tosses it to the floor. My hands smooth over my hair, which I’m sure looks a mess.

“Your presence would never bother me.” He shakes his head with a tight smile. “Holly made it seem like there was a stranger staying here.”

“She wanted me to act like a regular guest and give her feedback.”

He’s undressing me slowly. Layer by layer. Unzipping sweaters, unbuttoning pants. Tossing each article of clothing into a heap by the front door. And I just let it happen. I don’t even bother asking why I’m suddenly in nothing but a pair of leggings and a thin tank. I’m too lost in the rasp of his breathing, my own heavy exhale caught in my throat.

“So far, I have some choice words for her about the woodstove and the instructions she gave for it.”

He laughs under his breath. “I have some choice words for her about keeping it a secret that her friend with the perfect ass was going to be on my property. Alone. So close to my house.”

Blood pounds loudly behind my eardrums as Lucas runs his hands down my bare arms, stopping to rub his thumb over the inside of my wrist.

“What’s got your pulse racing, Eira?” He smirks down at me, the warmth and closeness of his body igniting a spark between my thighs.

“Just dreading how much work it’ll be to put all those clothes back on.”

“You don’t need to worry about that since you’re not going back outside tonight.”

“I’m not?” I whisper.

“No. You can have my bed, and I’ll crash on the couch. I’ll get a fire lit in the cabin before I head to work in the morning.”

Oh, God. I really am a major pain in the neck. This is the furthest thing from not bothering him I can get. “Just tell me how to get the fire going, and I’ll be out of here. I can’t sleep in your bed, Lucas.”

He shrugs. “You have before.”

“That was different. You invited me there, and we…”

We didn’t sleep much.

“I’m inviting you now. The only way I’m going to get any sleep tonight is if I know you’re safe and warm.” His hand grazes my shoulder as he reaches to turn out the only light—leaving me breathless and yearning in the dark. “And I really need sleep. Please go upstairs and make yourself at home.”

My eyes flicker toward the steep stairs. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“Get upstairs, Eira.” With a sudden sternness, Lucas stares me down. His hands find the curve of my hips, settling in and guiding me toward the staircase. “Go on. Get to bed.”

“Get inside, Eira,” he said with a husky growl as we stood in the open doorway of his hotel room.

He gripped my hips with intent, and a needy whimper burst from my chest at the same moment he pressed me into the backside of the door.

I clawed at his shirt, taking hold of the thin fabric as he peppered my neck and jaw with bourbon-soaked kisses. My hips rocked into his, desperate and not giving a fuck if he knew it, forcing the slow hitch of my dress until the damp part of my panties rode against the bulge in his trousers. And still, it wasn’t enough.

When my dress finally hit the floor, Lucas took a step back and cursed. Low and growly. All the playfulness of the evening was gone—replaced with pure, blown-out lust in his deep-set eyes.

“Fucking hell, Eira,” he muttered under his breath when my fingers wrapped around his wrist, guiding his touch to the place I needed it most.

Together we watched his hand slip below the lace of my underwear, and he captured my moan in a deep kiss.

Lucas clears his throat, breaking the spell, and I’m suddenly aware of the shortness in my breath.

“I’ll be gone to work when you wake up, but I’ll have your wood stove going. Or feel free to hang out here.”

“Okay, uh… thank you.” I start toward the stairs, leaving with one last glance over my shoulder. Wondering if he wants to follow me up to bed as badly as I want him to.

But I can’t find it in me to ask. To tell him how often I think about that night, or how it meant more to me than it probably should.

His room’s warm and smells like the cologne he wore to the party. I fit myself into the slight dip in his mattress where he must normally sleep, tucking my knees to my chest and burying my face in his pillows.

The house is quiet, Lucas’s bed blanketed in early morning sun, and I sit up with a yawn. The floor’s chilly when I pad across the room to his dresser. Even though he said he wouldn’t be home, I’m tiptoeing around as if I’ll disturb someone. Without second thought, I grab his cologne and spritz a small amount on my wrist. Much like what I saw of his house last night, his room’s clean and minimalistic. One photo of his family rests in a tiny frame on top of his dresser, but otherwise there’s nothing to sneak a peek at unless I snoop through drawers. And I feel plenty intrusive as it is, so I neatly make the bed and head downstairs to grab my things.

Which is where I find an orange sticky note on the door. One word: Dinner?

Dinner.

Does he want to go out for dinner? Does he want me to make him dinner? I need more context here.

Nibbling at my thumbnail, I pocket the note, grab my clothes, and step out into the brisk mountain air. A deep breath makes my nostrils stick together, and there’s a twinge of pain in my lungs. For a moment, I regret ever leaving the warmth of his bed. If I stayed there all day, maybe I could work up the courage to invite him to join me by the time he gets home.