Christmas at Fox Ridge

7. Lucas

Chapter seven

Lucas

I ’m flopped on top of my bed in nothing but a towel when a noise downstairs startles me from my self-loathing stupor, and I frantically scrounge up a pair of sweatpants before heading out to investigate. I’m still adjusting the waistband when I get to the top of the stairwell and look down to see her.

“Eira?”

“Hey,” she says with an exasperated exhale, tugging the scarf from her neck. “Sorry for letting myself in. It’s so cold out, and I was knocking, but you… uh, must’ve been in the shower.” Her eyes rake over my naked torso, my still-damp chest.

“No need to be sorry.” All the insecurity that wormed into my brain during my shower dislodges with her easy smile. “Let me get changed, and I’ll be right down. I’m glad you understood my vague note about dinner.”

“I wasn’t quite sure what it meant, so I tried to make something. But, uh, did you know it’s possible to burn soup?” She grimaces, nose scrunching up in the cutest way, and I stifle back a laugh, not wanting to embarrass her. “I had to replace your pot… I grabbed takeout while I was in town.”

“Can’t go wrong with either of the restaurants in town.”

“That’s what Holly said when I called her to ask.”

Mention of my sister has me scrambling away from the quicksand filled with thoughts about fucking her best friend right there against the front door. As much as I want nothing more than to peel her clothes off and wrap her thighs around my neck like a life preserver.

I shouldn’t. Not again.

Right?

Tugging on my cleanest pair of jeans and a shirt free of stains, I reach for the bottle of cologne in my dresser. I honestly never bother to wear it, but it feels like my best shot of making myself appear date-worthy.

Eira’s sitting at the kitchen table looking out the window as dancing candlelight flickers over her face. Her dark hair’s so much shorter than it was at the engagement party, an inch shy of skimming her shoulders. She’s ditched the winter coat since I saw her in the doorway, and a loose shirt exposes her kissable collarbone.

That glimpse of effortless beauty has me hating all five years wasted walking into an empty kitchen. Regretting not getting her number six months ago. Cursing myself for not asking her out on a proper date before I had to leave the city.

Looking at the food she’s laid out beautifully on porcelain plates I forgot I own, I crack up. “Chicken tenders and French fries?”

Eira’s cheeks turn crimson, smile wavering, and I feel like the world’s biggest asshole.

“I can’t remember the last time I had good chicken tenders.” I pull out the wooden chair opposite hers and sink into it. “Problem with raising cattle is it becomes pretty much all you eat. I can’t justify buying chicken when there’s half a cow sitting in my deep freezer.”

“I wasn’t sure what was good, or what you and your girlfriend might like, so I panicked and went with something safe.” She grabs a fry, slowly twirling it through a dollop of ketchup on her plate. “Is she joining us?”

A fry lodges itself in my throat, and I cough into my closed fist for what feels like a century while she stares at me.

“Girlfriend?”

Nostrils flaring, she looks me over, clearly checking for signs of deceit. “I saw her here this morning…”

“Cora,” I say, as if saying her name explains everything. If anything, the stare turned glare from Eira indicates I’ve done the opposite. “She’s just an employee here. Well… sort of. She lives in the apartment above the barn and works for me in exchange for rent.”

“So, you’re not…”

“No, we’re definitely not.” I reach for the bottle of bourbon, tipping my chin toward her empty glass to check if she wants it filled. She nods, and I fill it as I continue. “As for what I like, I don’t care what I’m having for dinner if I get you as company.”

Averting her eyes, she tries to hide a smile while taking a thoughtful sip that relaxes something in her shoulders. And for a few moments, we sit together in comfortable silence.

Finally, she opens her mouth to speak. “You’ll be happy to know I managed to keep the wood stove going all day.”

Actually, I’d love to know she needed to sleep in my bed again.

Even still, I can’t help but smile at how proud she is of herself. “Very impressive.”

She flourishes a French fry as she speaks. “I basically roleplayed as Laura Ingalls Wilder all day, trying to romanticize the idea of being alone in a cabin waiting for Almanzo to come home. That’s where the idea to make soup came from. And it was going great until I got too distracted with a commission I’m working on.”

“I’m way more of a Charles than an Almanzo. Rugged, handsome, good with my hands. Charles would come home and have a good laugh when Caroline’s frazzled over the soup. You need to change it so I’m Charles Ingalls, and you can be Caroline.” I bite a piece of breaded chicken matter-of-factly.

“You don’t get to barge in and make demands during my daydream.”

“Caroline’s hotter than Laura. You should be happy about the switch.”

“All this bossing around, you’re starting to sound like Nellie . ” She shakes her head, throwing back the rest of her bourbon with a small wince.

“Doubt I could pull off her curls.”

That makes her laugh. Damn if that’s not a sound I want to hear every minute of every day.

“Normally, I wouldn’t entertain another second of somebody desecrating my girl, Laura, but I’m very curious why you know so much about Little House on the Prairie. ”

“Three sisters and a mother. I didn’t even know shows about superheroes and dinosaurs existed until middle school.” I chuckle. “Plus, my mom read us the entire series as bedtime stories.”

“Why aren’t you spending Christmas with them?” Eira nudges her empty glass toward me, and I happily pour a couple ounces. “I mean, I know Holly’s with Daniel’s family, but what about the rest of your family?”

I shrug. “My other sisters have families, so my parents are busy jumping between their houses to see grandkids. And no matter how many times Holly hints at it, I’m never doing Christmas with Daniel’s family.”

Eira smacks her palm against the table edge. “Do you know they go running as a family on Christmas day? I’m not even walking on a food holiday unless there’s a serial killer after me—even then…” Her hands tip like two sides of a scale, weighing out invisible choices.

“A food holiday?”

“You know”—the liquid in her lowball glass swirls with a slow roll of her wrist—“the holidays where all you do is eat. Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter. Also known as no pants holidays.”

I cough into my fist, liquor burning a path into my lungs. “Are you related to Winnie the Pooh? Why is your family pantsless on Christmas?”

Eira’s laugh makes the tapered candle between us flicker and sway. If it weren’t for that open flame, I’d leap across and kiss her. Taste the bourbon on her lips while I imagine spending this Christmas with her, without pants.

“If you wear a big enough shirt, it’s like a dress. And I can eat as much as I want without feeling uncomfortable.”

“Whatever this weird Christmas of yours is, sign me up. I’ll even lend you a T-shirt to wear as a dress.”

Eira and I both take a small gulp of liquor, letting the flirtation in my voice hang like dead air between us.

“Honestly, there should be a law against exercise on Christmas Day. I don’t know how Holly deals with her in-laws,” she says with a grimace. “If I accidentally marry into a marathon-running family, the only running I’m doing is to the divorce attorney’s office.”

“It would be a holiday though, so they’re closed. Now what do you do?”

“Fake my own death,” she deadpans. “It’s the only way.”

Our hands brush when we reach for the same French fry, creating lightning bolts between us. This feels silly—I’ve fucked her against a wall before. A finger graze over a plate of food shouldn’t make my heart rate run rampant. But it does.

“Why aren’t you with your family?” I ask.

“I don’t have any siblings, and my parents decided to go on a cruise.” She tips her glass in mock salute, golden liquid nearly sloshing over the rim. “And I’m not a runner, but I am a sucker. Which is how Holly convinced me to come here, despite the fact that I’ve never expressed an interest in operating a wood stove, or having zero cell service, or snow. In fact, I’ve always been morally opposed to those things.”

“You’re morally opposed to snow?” I raise an eyebrow. Can’t wait for her reasoning here.

“Yes,” she says, glass clunking on the table. “For one, my name means snow in Welsh. It’s exhausting having to constantly correct pronunciation or deal with people being like, ‘Oooh that sounds so foreign, where are you from?’ and I have to awkwardly tell them I was born and raised here.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” I respond honestly.

“Plus, snow is awful. Would you like me to list the ways snow wreaks havoc on everything?”

“Nah, I work outside. I know all too well. Winter’s a pain in the ass. But if you get the chance to go into town again, take a drive past the elementary school and look at the snowmen lining the yard. That’s my favourite thing about winter.”

“The snowmen?” There’s that adorable nose scrunch again. “Fun fact, I’ve never made a snowman before.”

I propel forward, leaning far enough across the table, I can practically taste the bourbon on her breath. “You haven’t? ”

She shakes her head with a small shrug.

Before I know what I’m doing, my chair’s scraping across the hardwood and I’m standing, clutching the liquor bottle and my glass while beckoning her to follow.

“Where are we—”

“You’ve lived in Canada your entire life and never made a snowman?”

“No snowmen, snow angels, igloos… basically all snowy activities.”

“I think that’s illegal, and we’re righting your wrongs immediately. Can’t risk you getting caught.” I hold out her jacket so she can slip her arms in then zip the front for her as she tugs on a toque. The scarf she’s been wearing isn’t going to cut the cold. I hold it up with an eyebrow raised, ignoring her insistence that it’s cute , and grab one of my thick wool scarves to wrap around her neck.

“It’s dark out, you know,” she says, but the realization isn’t slowing her down. Soon she’s fully bundled, following me into the night.

We both pound back the last bit of liquid in our glasses, and everything about the world is hazy except her. She’s in full technicolor, smiling at me with a muted crescent moon at her back, full lips slightly parted and in desperate need of kissing. My gloved hands wring together to fight the urge to grab her arm and drag her into me.

“The snowman?” she asks hoarsely.

Right. The fucking snowman.

“Yeah. So, you start with a small ball, like for a snowball fight, and keep rolling it across the snow until it’s big enough.”

Squatting down, she packs a ball between her mittens. “I’ve never been in a snowball fight, either.”

“Of course you ha—” My sentence’s cut off by a snowball hitting hard in my chest.

The obvious culprit’s sitting with a sweet smile on her face, daintily putting together a new ball. Testing my resolve. All I want to do when I see that glimmer of mischief in her eyes is press into her with a brazenness I haven’t felt since the hotel elevator. But this is a friendly late-night snowball fight. That’s all.

“You’re a little shit,” I choke out. “Expect payback. You’re looking at my family’s snowball tournament champion.”

With a disgusted look, she lobs another my way. “Family snowball tournament? Suddenly the marathon-running in-laws are sounding more appealing.”

“Except violence is frowned upon in running. This is a full-contact sport.” I lightly toss a snowball in her direction, and she gawks at me when it explodes across her thigh.

“You mean I could tackle you?” There’s a terrifying glimmer in her eyes now. Knees straightening, she brushes powder from her legs.

“You could sure try.”

With that, Eira’s barrelling toward me in slow motion, held back by the shin-deep powder. And when her palms collide with my chest, I stagger backward, wrapping my arms around her instinctively. Nowhere close to a tackle. But now she’s pressed against me. A few errant strands of her hair tickle my nose, her heart slams against mine, and she looks up at me with the sweetest tipsy giggle.

“Oof, big guy. You’re built like a brick shithouse.”

At that, my head lolls back with a gut-busting laugh. When Eira joins in, I realize this is the best night I’ve had since… well, since the night at the bar with her. Before that? I’m unsure.

“That was the worst tackle I’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what I was going for,” she says with a coy smile. She’s close enough I’m tempted to press my lips to hers. Find out one way or another if those feelings we had months ago still exist on her end. For a moment, we share airspace, lost in a staring contest. Then she breaks it with the slow lick of her bottom lip. “Shall we continue with the snowman?”

Hesitantly pulling out of my grasp, she gives my arm a quick squeeze and jumps back into the snowman project while I pour more bourbon.

“This’ll help you stay warm,” I say, handing over the glass.

“That’s a myth. But thank you.” She takes a quick swig, never taking her eyes off mine.

Side by side, she and I push balls of snow around like we’re young kids. At one point, I trip, destroying my hard work, and Eira’s laugh carries across the entire ranch. It echoes off the log cabin, and the trees, and my heart.

By the time we’re finished, my cheeks are aching from laughter and my nose is entirely frozen. And I’ve never felt so weightless.

“She’s beautiful,” Eira says, taking a step back to admire our handiwork—which now also features a carrot nose and Eira’s fancy silk scarf.

“Great first snowman, Doodlebug.”

“Why Doodlebug?”

I shrug. “Was the first thing that popped into my head after I saw you sitting alone, completely transfixed by your drawing despite the bedlam around you.”

“That’s how I deal with the chaos.” She wanders a few feet away and flops into the crisp powder, laying back to create an angel with the slow sweeping motion of her limbs. “I get anxious in new situations, but drawing gets me out of my head.”

A shiver racks my body as I sink down next to her. “I get that… You got me out of my head that night.”

She cranes her neck to look at me with a smile. Snowflakes cling to every strand of dark hair peeking out from under her toque, glimmering in the dark. “Lucas, I don’t know what— oh my God , look at th—“

She cuts her sentence short, pointing up to the sky. Blues and purples and greens dance across a pitch-black backdrop. Ribbons of colour swirling, spreading wide and looping back in on themselves, stretched across the night like an uncoiled slinky—pulling something inside me taut until it’s begging to snap. The beautiful Aurora Borealis, and the even more stunning Eira Davies. With icy glitter in her hair, wide-eyed joy on her face, and a hand suddenly gripping mine on the snowy ground.

“That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.” Her free hand curves through the air above us, painting each colourful streak.

“Mmm, I know what can top it,” I mumble under my breath, ignoring the colour show and staring at her.

“Hrm?” She allows her eyes to flit to mine before returning to the sky above us.

I clear my throat. “Those are the northern lights. We get pretty great views of them up here.”

“Wow. I’d love to try and draw them…” The amount of wonder and wistfulness in her voice makes my chest ache. “You get this all the time?”

“All winter long.”

The snow under her crunches as she tips her head to look at me. “I can see why you moved out here.”

The sight stole my breath the first winter I spent here. Then I got busy working my ass off to maintain this place, never bothering to stay up late enough to catch a glimpse. It’s been years too long. So much time passed, there have been a few times when I’ve nearly forgotten the reason I moved here in the first place. But lying on the frozen earth with Eira’s warmth seeping through my damp glove, I finally feel grateful for this ranch again.