2. Sawyer

SAWYER

I slam the door against the howling wind, watching as my unexpected guest stumbles into the warmth of my cabin, shivering and covered in snow. The sight of her in my space does something strange to my chest.

In the proper light, I can see her more clearly, and my mouth goes dry. She's gorgeous—all lush curves and rosy cheeks, dark hair dusted with melting snowflakes. When she unzips the front of her coat, the red and white polka dot dress she’s wearing hugs every sweet curve of her delicious body. I’m instantly hard. Gawking at her as she struggles to get her arms out of the downy winter coat. My hands itch to help her.

Her eyes dart around everywhere, taking in my living room with curiosity, and I see my space through her gaze. The stark walls, the minimal furniture, the complete absence of anything that might suggest someone actually lives here rather than just exists. I glance at the empty mantle where normal people would display family photos or Christmas cards. But I packed those away years ago, along with everything else that reminded me of December promises broken.

“Gosh, it’s so warm in here.”

Snowflakes melt on her shoulders, darkening spots on her coat, and she winces in her struggle to get the offending article off her body. The sight stirs something protective in me, something I thought I'd buried years ago, along with everything else that made me human.

Get it together, Hawkins.

“Here.” I step behind her, helping her slide the coat off before I can think better of it. She smells like vanilla and cinnamon, and when my fingers brush her shoulders as I ease the wet coat away, I swear I feel her lean into the touch. “Better?”

“Thanks. It’s really warm in here.” She turns to face me, offering a bright smile that makes me want things I shouldn’t. This close, I can see the pretty segmented patterns in her brown eyes, the slight flush on her cheeks, and her deep pink lips that are just begging for me to... “I'm Noelle, by the way,” she says, interrupting my thoughts before they turn into actions. “Noelle Winters.”

Of course she is. Because the universe clearly has a sense of humor, sending me a Christmas angel named Noelle to crash into my life on a holiday I don’t even like. “Noelle?”

She lets out a tiny laugh. “I was born the week before Christmas. My due date was actually Christmas day. So my mom had the name all picked out. But she says it was still fitting since I make every Christmas brighter with my over-the-top holiday spirit.” She twirls slightly from side to side, showcasing the dress that seems designed for festivities, the skirt flaring out like a joyful banner. “I guess that’s my superpower in life.”

I can’t help but chuckle, but the sound comes out all gruff and wrong. More like a derisive grunt. She frowns and quickly runs a hand down her front to still her dress. I feel like shit and move on.

“Sawyer Hawkins.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hawkins.” She holds out her hand and I take it, trying to ignore how perfectly it fits in mine. “Thank you for not leaving me out there to freeze. I promise to get out of your hair as soon as possible. Oh, and to somehow pay for the repairs on your fence.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, releasing her hand before I can do something stupid like pull her closer. “I’m just glad you didn’t break your neck out there. And about the fence… it’s nothing a few nails and some lumber won’t fix.” I wave dismissively, but my heart races at the thought of her leaving. “Coffee?”

“That would be great,” she replies, her smile widening in a way that seems to light up every corner of my dark cabin. It's as if even my walls are craving her nearness.

With a grunt, I tear myself away from her and head for the kitchen. The familiar ritual of making coffee should calm my nerves, but her presence makes even this simple task feel different. I hunt through my cabinets, painfully aware of how unprepared I am for guests. Most of my mugs are chipped or stained from years of solitary use, and I can't remember the last time I bothered with anything beyond basic black coffee.

“Not a fan of company?” She glances around while I dig through the cabinet, probably noting the sparse furnishings and complete lack of personal touches.

“It's not that I'm not a fan,” I say over my shoulder, trying to sound casual as I finally locate a decent mug buried in the dark recesses of the cupboard. “Just prefer it quiet.”

I measure the coffee grounds carefully, hyper-aware of her watching me. The rich aroma fills the kitchen as I work, and I catch her closing her eyes, inhaling deeply. Something about the way she appreciates even this simple pleasure makes my chest tight.

“Ah, the hermit life,” she teases gently, leaning against the other side of the counter. Her fingers tap a rhythm against the granite, and I find myself mesmerized by the movement. “Although, with it being Christmas Eve with no tree, no lights—not even a candy cane in sight—I'm wondering if you're secretly the Grinch?”

I scoff, pouring hot water over the grounds with practiced precision. “The Grinch at least had a dog.”

Noelle laughs, a bright sound that makes my heart feel lighter than it has in years. “All right then, what’s your excuse? No dog, no tree—are you just pretending it’s not the most magical night of the year?”

“There’s no pretending here.” I glance up at her as I pour the steaming coffee into two mismatched mugs. “I just don’t do Christmas.”

“You don’t do Christmas?” She sounds genuinely distressed by this, like the idea of someone not wanting to celebrate during the holidays is completely foreign to her. “That sounds so…”

“Peaceful?” I offer, sliding her coffee across the counter to her.

She shakes her head. “Lonely.”

“Don't waste your sympathy,” I say as I lift my mug to my mouth. “I chose this.”

“Nobody chooses to be alone on Christmas,” she breathes. “They just convince themselves it's easier that way.”

I take a long sip of my coffee, fighting the feeling her words have created in my gut, until my attention is pulled to the emergency alert lighting up my phone. “It’s a shelter in place warning. Storm's not letting up anytime soon. You'll have to stay here tonight.”

“What? No!” She puts her coffee down so hard it sloshes slightly over the side of it. “Shit. I’m sorry. But I can't! My family's expecting me. My mom will worry, and my aunt Pearl will have an absolute meltdown if I miss Christmas Eve dinner, and…” I watch as she pulls out her own phone, reads over the same emergency message, and her panic sets in.

“Noelle—”

“You don’t understand. It’s not just dinner, it's tradition! We wear matching pajamas, we exchange gifts, and we play board games until everyone is too tired to make it through another round,” she explains, her voice rising with each detail. “And my mom's secret eggnog recipe—it’s legendary! If I don't make it, they’ll think something awful happened to me!”

“Like being stuck with a grumpy mountain man?” I can’t help but smirk at my joke, but the moment I see the urgency in her eyes, the smile falters. “Look, you can try calling them, if that’ll help ease your worry.”

“No signal up here!” Her eyes brim as she holds her phone up to illustrate her point. The sight of her distress feels uncomfortable. I'm not used to caring about other people's emotions anymore.

“No. But there's a landline. If you're lucky, the lines are still up.” I try to keep my voice gruff, professional, even as I watch a tear escape down her cheek.

“A landline?” She sniffs and swipes her tear away. “What century is this?” Despite her upset, there's a hint of teasing in her voice that makes my lips twitch.

“The same century where people still get stranded on mountains during snowstorms.” I walk over to the ancient rotary handset attached to my kitchen wall and lift the receiver to listen for a dial tone. “You know how to work one of these things?”

“Of course I do,” she says, but her confident tone doesn't match the way she's eyeing the phone like it might bite her. She snatches it from my hand and walks closer to the wall cradle, hesitating with her finger hovering over the circular dial.

I watch her with a mix of amusement and, well, attraction , as she struggles with the ancient technology. Her dress rides up slightly as she shifts her weight, and I force my eyes back to her face. “Come on. Surely you had one of those plastic toy phones as a kid.”

“The toy phone I had was a flip phone,” she says as she fumbles with the rotary dial. There's a delicate balance of concentration and anxiety on her face, and I can't help but chuckle at her frustration. “This is ridiculous! How do people even use these?”

“Here.” Before I can stop myself, I move in behind her, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body. She stiffens slightly as my chest brushes against her back, but doesn't pull away. The scent of her shampoo hits me. Something sweet and festive that makes my head spin. “What's the number?”

My voice comes out rougher than intended, and I clear my throat. The small space between us crackles with tension, and I'm suddenly very aware of how perfectly she'd fit against me if I pulled her closer. How soft she’d feel digging my fingers into her flesh…

She hesitates for a moment as she looks up at me, her breathing quickened. “I was just about to figure it out, you know.”

“I'm sure you were.” I smile at her stubbornness, even as I fight my dick so it doesn’t jump to attention over her proximity. “The number?”

With a small huff, she recites her parents' number. I dial it smoothly, and after a light click, the call goes through. I pass the handset back to her.

“It's ringing,” I murmur, reluctantly stepping back.

“I totally had it,” she insists, but then her eyes light up as someone answers and she turns away from me as she presses the handset to her ear. “Mom? Mom! Oh thank goodness...”

I move away, chuckling to myself as I hear her launch into an explanation of her situation. Her voice follows me as I head toward my workroom so she can talk with her family in peace. Her voice fades as I slip through the door, replaced by the soft hum of equipment and the familiar scent of soil and growth. My babies need attention, especially with this storm threatening to drop temperatures lower than forecast.

“Looks like it'll be more than just you and me tonight,” I murmur, checking the monitors. The digital readouts show steady temperatures for now, but I know how quickly that can change. The rare Paphiopedilum orchid I've been cultivating for three years is particularly sensitive to temperature fluctuations. One wrong degree and months of careful work could be lost.

Moving between the rows of plants, I breathe in the rich, earthy scent that always calms me. Each specimen has its place, its purpose, its own particular needs. Unlike people, they're predictable. Give them what they need, and they thrive. Simple. Or at least it was simple before a Christmas angel crashed into my fence and brought chaos to my carefully ordered world.

The Victorian-era orangery glass above lets in what little natural light remains, the storm casting strange shadows through the reinforced panels. Wind howls against the glass, making the panes rattle ominously.

Through the door, I can still hear Noelle's voice, animated and warm even through the walls. The sound disrupts my usual peaceful routine, but not unpleasantly. It's been so long since another voice echoed through these rooms that I'd forgotten what it felt like to share space with someone else.

My hands move automatically through their familiar tasks—adjusting grow lights, checking soil moisture, monitoring humidity levels. Each plant gets its own attention, its own care. The rare specimens, especially, need constant vigilance. Years of research, countless hours of careful cultivation, all housed in this glass sanctuary.

“At least you don't ask questions,” I murmur to the orchid, its delicate petals still stubbornly closed. “Or crash into fences. Or wear polka dot dresses that make a man forget how to think straight.”

A strong gust of wind rattles the greenhouse, and I glance at the temperature gauges again. Everything's holding steady, but something in my gut tells me this storm isn't done testing us yet. I'll need to keep checking throughout the night, which means more encounters with my unexpected guest. Something I’m not mad about…