The Christmas You Crash (Going Rogue #2)

Chapter 3

three

LEXI

This is the life.

Snow falls all around me, the bite of the frigid breeze over my neck and face eliciting a shiver, even as the rest of me almost overheats. I’ve probably been in this hot tub twenty minutes too long, but I can’t seem to bring myself to go inside.

It’s so silent out here. With every additional inch of snow, the world stills, and so does my heart. Between school and my parents’ divorce, I’ve been so stressed, I swear my heart always feels like I’ve just finished an hour of cardio. There’s so much pressure to have it all figured out right now. To be responsible and mature and perfect. I need to keep my grades up so I can get a good job after I finish my MBA.

Then there are things with my parents.

Dad has asked me to get together a couple of times since things with Mom imploded, even though he hasn’t made any real effort to bridge the gap he created between us. I figure it’s out of obligation, since he knows on some level that he should feel bad about everything that’s happened. Not that he does.

My mom wants me to have this great relationship with Jeff, even though I want nothing to do with the man. Shitty marriage or not, nobody likes a home-wrecker, and Jeff knew my mom wasn’t single when they started hooking up.

Everyone wants something different from me, but do any of them care about what I want?

Not likely. Hell, they didn’t even bother asking what I might like for Christmas. Not that I expected them to. I’m an adult. I don’t need presents. But it’s nice to feel thought of and seen.

But all of that fades away as I turn into a human prune in this hot tub, surrounded by wintery magic. This is exactly the peace I was looking for.

My stomach growls, reminding me that all I’ve eaten today was a breakfast sandwich and a few snacks on the road. Not to mention way too much coffee. Tonight feels like the perfect night for bougie grilled cheese. I have gruyere, onions to caramelize, the perfect, soft sourdough, and this really yummy bacon jam I picked up from the indoor farmer’s market last month. Time to get out of this gloriously hot water and run inside.

Grabbing my freezing cold towel from the lidded tub I brought out to keep the snow from covering it, I take a few deep breaths. “Get your ass out of the hot tub, Lexi. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. You’re going to freeze your tits off, but it’ll be worse if you don’t suck it up and run inside.” I still can’t seem to make myself get up. “One. Two. Three!”

Leaping out of the hot tub, I quickly wrap the fluffy towel around my body. I grip the cold cotton in one hand and my empty wineglass in the other before scampering over the snow-covered deck. It’s so. Damned. Cold. Worth it, but geez. My nipples are hard enough to cut glass. The wine stem in my hand causes me to fumble with the door for a moment, then I rush inside with a shiver and a little squeal. I give the winter wonderland outside one last look as I shut the door. Beautiful. Now it’s time to dry off and get dressed.

Turning, I take a step toward the counter to set down my glass when I stop dead in my tracks. All the peace and relaxation I just enjoyed is undone in spectacular fashion when my eyes land on the massive, well-over-six-foot form of an intruder standing mere feet away from me. My heart thunders in my chest as I quickly take him in. Black coat, black leather gloves, a black knit beanie tugged low over his eyebrows, drawing my attention to icy-blue eyes that flash with anger, a strong jawline that ticks and flexes, and full lips pursed into a severe line.

My heart thunders in my chest. I’m going to be murdered. This is how I die. Killed by a man who is way too hot to be a serial killer, and yet here we are.

Screaming, I do the only thing I can think of and chuck my empty wine glass right at his head. It connects with his jaw with a satisfying thud , and my would-be murderer shouts. The pain distracts him from pulling out his weapon. It’s probably a jagged-edged knife or a garrote or something equally ominous. He rubs his jaw, his eyes furious as he stares at me like I’m going to pay for that.

But if I die here tonight, at least I’m going out with a fight. When my favorite true crime girl creates a podcast about my murder, she’ll be able to tell her listeners I got in a few hits of my own.

“Get. Out!” I scream as I grab the half-full bottle of rosé and throw it at him. My aim isn’t quite as solid this time, and the man swats it away with his hand, which makes him shout again with pain. I must have hit a knuckle or something, because he cradles the hand to his chest.

“What the fuck?” he shouts. “Bitch!”

Bitch? He’s the one trying to murder me, and I’m the bitch? Mind spinning, I grab the only other potential weapon within reach. The corkscrew I used to open my wine. My fingers close around it, and despite the fear that makes me tremble, I stand straight, putting both hands out in front of me, ready to defend myself.

And then my towel drops to the floor in a wet splat .

Well, shit. In all my panic, I sorta forgot about the fact that I’m naked and the towel keeping me from using my left hand was the only thing covering my body.

Wide-eyed and nearly feral with panic, I lift my gaze to the intruder. He’s still cradling his garroting hand to his chest, but his attention is now squarely on my nipples. My very hard, very pointy nipples.

At least he’s distracted?

With few options left, I throw the corkscrew at him and run. If I can make it to the main bedroom, I can lock and barricade the door, then lock myself into the main bath. Two locked doors between us are better than none, and hopefully, it will give me time to call for help.

Putting on a burst of speed, I make it past the stunned axe murderer I’ve hypnotized with my nipples, and pound through the house on wet feet. I pray I don’t slip, because I sure as hell can’t afford to slow down. Not if I want to keep my blood in my body. And I do want that. Very much.

“Hey,” the man shouts as the spell breaks and his heavy footsteps follow behind me. “Get back here!”

“Fuck you,” I scream as I skid into the main bedroom, slam the door shut, and lock it. My heart tries to punch its way out of my rib cage, and I gulp down huge, ragged gasps of air. I press my forehead to the thick wood of the door for a moment as I try to catch my breath. But the relief is short-lived as the man in black pounds on the door.

My panic comes back full force.

RYDER

What in the fresh hell is happening?

My injured hand throbs beneath my glove after blocking that damned wine bottle from hitting my face, my jaw aches from where that little naked home invader hit me with a wineglass, and my stupid dick is hard from the sight of those perfect pink nipples and her smooth, curvy body.

Focus, Ryder.

Using my left hand, I pound on the door she’s slammed shut between us after trying the knob and realizing she’s locked herself in. This is not how I thought this trip would go.

“Hey. Come out here, right now.”

There’s a brittle bark of laughter on the other side of the door. “No fucking way.”

“I’ll have to call the cops, then,” I tell her. If she won’t leave on her own, I won’t have another choice. This is Coach Cross’s cabin, and he made me responsible for it. I can’t let him down.

“ You’re calling the cops?” she screeches. There’s rustling on the other side of the door as she moves around the room. “ I’m calling the cops! You’re the one breaking and entering, asshole. You think I’m going to fall for your shit? You’ve probably got a garrote gripped and ready in those murder-glove-covered hands of yours. I won’t be strangled while I’m wet and naked and end up the subject of a true crime podcast. They’ll title it something awful, like Hot Tub Horrors or Ho-Ho-Homicide . Not today, Satan. Not. To. Day.”

It takes me a moment to compute what she’s said. Garrotes? Murder gloves? Ho-Ho-Homicide ? Wait. “What do you mean, I’m the one breaking and entering? I’m supposed to be here. I have a key.”

And that’s when the crazy, naked woman cries, “Oh my god. Did you murder my dad?” She’s screeching now, her voice rising higher and higher in pitch with every new word she speaks. “Did someone hire you to kill my whole family? What, did his stupid hockey team make your mob boss lose some money on a bet or something? Because I haven’t spoken more than a few words to my father in months!”

Oh. Shit.

I go completely still as my mind puts all the pieces together, and I ask a question I’m not sure I want to know the answer to. Because if this woman is who I think she is, then I just saw my coach’s daughter completely buck-ass naked. “What’s your name?”

“Shouldn’t you know that already if you’ve been hired to kill me?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I inhale deeply, hoping it will bring patience to my tone that I’m not feeling. “No one hired me to kill you. Jesus. I think this is all one big misunderstanding. Why would you think this is about your dad?”

She scoffs, and I can picture her rolling her eyes behind the door. “Because this is our family’s cabin, and he’s the only one who’s used it in the last year.”

Fuck . I let my head fall forward and bang on the door. The woman shrieks and I sigh. “I’m not going to hurt you. You can open the door.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re not going to hurt me,” she parrots. She’s fiery—I’ll give her that—but I don’t miss the waver in her voice. She’s also terrified. “I totally trust you now that you’ve said that. Let me just open the door so you can garrote me.”

“What in the hell is with you and garroting?”

“What? It’s a very common tool used by hitmen and mobsters. I’ve listened to like three separate true crime podcasts this month where that’s how the victim died.” Her voice is reedy and high-pitched, and I can hear her breathing rapidly, even through the door. I need to reassure her she’s not in danger before she ends up hyperventilating and passes out.

Keeping my voice low and soothing, I say, “My name is Ryder Hanson. I’m a defenseman on the Minnesota Rogues. I’m here because Coach Cross banished me to the boonies, so I’d stop trying to pick fights with my former best friend on the Chicago Blizzard, who almost ended my hockey career.” I pause, and when she doesn’t respond, I add, “I’m not a hitman or a mafia guy.”

The woman behind the door is so silent, I wonder for a moment if she’s climbed out a window or something. But she finally speaks again, and this time, her voice sounds almost pained. “My dad is your coach?”

“Is your dad Arthur Cross?”

There’s a pause, and then a quiet, “Yes.”

“Then, yeah, he’s my coach. What’s your name?”

There’s a rustling behind the door before it cracks open to reveal wide green eyes the color of emeralds, long, wet, golden-blonde hair, and full, pursed lips. She’s dressed now in an oversized hoodie emblazoned with a college logo and black leggings that hug every inch of her toned legs. She’s stunning.

“Lexi.” She tucks a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “Lexi Cross.”

I take a step back as she cracks the door open a little wider, not wanting to crowd her and make her feel uncomfortable or scared. I’m a hell of a lot bigger than she is. She’s probably all of five-foot-six. Rubbing my uninjured hand across the back of my neck, I meet her guarded gaze. “Mind telling me what you’re doing here, Lexi? Because I doubt very much that Coach would have banished me to this cabin if he knew you’d be here too.”

“No,” she agrees. “Probably not. Come on, I need some hot chocolate to warm up.” She pads past me, the slipper socks she’s wearing snicking across the floor like whispers. “Want some?”

“Sure,” I reply. Hopefully, she’s also got some Bailey’s we can splash in there, because after the last ten minutes, I need a drink.