4. Sawyer

SAWYER

T he rare Paphiopedilum orchid's delicate petals mock me as I adjust its grow light for the hundredth time. Usually, tending to my plants centers me, gives me focus. But all I can think about is the woman in my living room, probably talking to herself and examining every detail of my sparse existence.

Steam fogs the glass panels as I check the humidity levels again. Each precise measurement, each careful adjustment that normally brings order to my world, now feels like a futile attempt to distract myself from thoughts of her. The way her dress stretches across her ample breasts and tucks in snuggly against her thick waist. How her eyes light up when she smiles. The soft scent of vanilla and cinnamon that lingers in the air even now.

“At least you're predictable,” I mutter to the orchid, wiping condensation from the temperature gauge. Years of working with these plants have taught me exactly what these temperamental beauties need. The right temperature, the perfect balance of light and shade, precise humidity levels. Plants follow rules. They don't crash through fences wearing polka dot dresses that fit like a wet dream. They don't fill silent spaces with endless chatter and infectious laughter. They don't make a man's hands itch to touch...

I let out a low groan as my mind wanders, cataloging all the things I'd like to do to her. Running my hands over her body, feeling the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips. The greenhouse suddenly feels too warm, too confined. I envision tracing a path up her leg, over her hip, and around to her waist. Imagine how it would feel to pull her close and feel her body pressed against mine. To taste her lips and explore every inch of her mouth with my tongue. To feel her fingers tangled in my hair as she moans into a deep, bruising kiss.

“Fuck.” My cock aches, and I have to fight the urge to reach down and give myself some relief. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a woman, and having one so perfectly wrapped, practically delivered to my doorstep has me wanting desperately to give in to my most carnal desires, to unzip that dress slowly, revealing her bare breasts one inch at a time. I want to take each nipple into my mouth, sucking and teasing them until they’re hard and sensitive.

“God, help me.” I close my eyes, and I can almost hear her gasps of pleasure as I imagine sliding my fingers inside of her, feeling how wet she is for me while she cries out as I bring her to orgasm over and over again.

The thought sends shivers down my spine and I bite back a groan of desire. I shake my head, trying to clear the lustful thoughts. This is dangerous territory.

Forcing my attention back to my work, I check the temperature gauges again. The backup generator is humming steadily, but the storm is putting a strain on the system. If the power goes out, even for a few minutes, years of years of work could be lost.

A loud thump from the living room interrupts my thoughts. Probably just the wind. But then I hear what sounds like furniture being dragged across hardwood. What the hell is she doing out there?

I force myself to ignore the sounds and keep my focus. The storm's making the temperature fluctuate more than I'd like, and this particular specimen is worth more than most people's cars. Years of careful cultivation, countless hours of research, and more money than I care to think about—all to coax this stubborn plant into blooming.

Another thump. Then rustling. Then silence.

“She's fine,” I tell myself, adjusting the humidity controls. The familiar hum of equipment does nothing to settle my nerves. “She's a grown woman. She can handle being alone for five minutes without?—”

“Ow!”

The cry sends ice through my veins. I'm through the door before I even register moving, heart pounding against my ribs. The hot greenhouse air gives way to the more comfortable atmosphere of the cabin, and the sight that greets me stops me dead in my tracks.

My living room has been transformed into something out of a Hallmark movie. Twinkling lights drape every beam, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Tinsel and ribbons wrap around lampshades and doorframes, catching the firelight and throwing sparkles across the room. The air smells like pine and cinnamon—how the hell she’s managed that, I have no clue.

And in the middle of it all stands Noelle, rubbing her hip and glaring at a chair like it personally offended her. The warm glow of the lights catches the soft curves of her body, highlighting the worried bite of her lower lip. My chest tightens at the thought of her getting hurt, at how easily something could have happened while I was distracted with my plants.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She jumps at my voice, spinning around with a guilty expression that somehow makes her even more appealing. “I can explain!”

“Please do.” My eyes track over her body, checking for injuries even as anger rises in my throat. The thought of her hurt, of something happening to her while I was just rooms away, makes my blood run cold. “Starting with why you're climbing furniture in the dark.”

“First of all, it's not dark anymore.” She gestures to the lights with a proud smile. “And second, I wasn't climbing furniture. I was... artistically balancing.”

“Artistically balancing?” I growl, crossing the room in three quick strides. “You could have broken your neck.”

“But I didn't!” Her smile falters slightly as I tower over her. “Look, I know you're probably mad about the decorations, but?—”

“The decorations?” I grab her shoulders, barely resisting the urge to shake some sense into her. “I don't care about the damn decorations. Actually. No. I do. Where the hell did these come from?”

She squeaks. “My car…”

“You went outside in a blizzard? Alone? To get this stuff from your car?”

“You said I could improvise.”

“You’re risking your life for the sake of some fucking lights. What if you'd fallen? What if you'd gotten lost out there? What if I couldn’t find you? What if I lost you ?”

Her eyes widen, and for a moment she looks scared until something soft passes over her face. “You…you were worried about me?”

I release her immediately.

“No.” Yes . “I just don't want to explain to emergency services why there's an unconscious woman in my living room wearing...” I gesture at her outfit, realizing for the first time that she's changed into what appears to be candy cane striped leggings and an oversized sweater with a reindeer whose nose actually lights up. “What are you wearing?”

“My Christmas Eve pajamas!” She beams, apparently recovered from her guilt. “I always wear festive PJs on Christmas Eve. It's tradition. And since I couldn't be with my family for their matching pajama photo, I thought I'd at least keep part of the tradition alive.” Her smile dims slightly. “I know it's silly...”

“It's not silly.” The words escape before I can stop them. Because somehow, standing here in my transformed living room with this Christmas-obsessed woman in her ridiculous light-up sweater, nothing feels silly anymore. It feels... right. Stupidly right.

“Here.” She grabs my hand, and electricity shoots through me at her touch. Her fingers are warm and soft against my calloused palm. “You can wear one too.” She places a folded sweater in my hand, looking up at me with such hopeful excitement that something in my chest constricts.

I look down at the monstrosity she's just handed me. It's a sweater, if you can call it that, in an eye-searing shade of green that would make the Grinch himself proud. There's a giant gingerbread man on the front, complete with gumdrop buttons that also light up. The whole thing probably violates several laws of good taste, not to mention electrical safety codes.

“Absolutely not.” I thrust the sweater back at her, but she just presses it into my chest, her hands lingering there longer than necessary. The warmth of her touch seeps through my shirt, making it hard to maintain my scowl.

“Oh, come on, it'll be fun! Look, it even plays music.” She presses a button and tinny notes of 'Jingle Bells' ring out. Her face is alight with such pure joy that I find myself wavering.

“That's horrible.” But even I can hear the lack of conviction in my voice.

“Horribly wonderful.” She smiles, smoothing her hands over the sweater she's still pressing against my chest. “I initially bought it for my dad as a spare—well, not really a spare. These things drive my mom nuts, so I bought extra as a joke to tease her. So no one will mind me gifting it to you instead. You can wear it while you help me hang the rest of the lights. That way, I can promise there'll be no more artistic balancing.”

The responsible part of me knows I should say no. Should send her to bed and go back to my plants. Instead, I pull the hideous sweater over my head, my resolve crumbling under her delighted gaze. The sweater's too tight across my shoulders, and the gingerbread man stretches alarmingly across my chest, but her beaming smile makes it worth every uncomfortable second.

“Happy now?”

She reaches up to adjust the collar, her fingers brushing against my neck. “It's a Christmas miracle.”

I roll my eyes. “Just tell me where you want these.” I turn to string the lights as she enthusiastically directs me.

“A little higher... no, to the left... perfect!” Her over-the-top joy seems to be infectious, and I have to fight to keep my scowl in place. “You know, for someone who doesn't do Christmas, you're pretty good at this.”

“I'm tall. That's all.”

She laughs, and all I can think about is making her giggle as I carry her off to my room. “Well, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Grinchy, we’re all done now. What do you think?” She steps back, gesturing at the room with a flourish.

I take in the transformation. The lights cast a warm glow that softens every harsh edge, making my usually stark cabin feel... homey. She's even managed to find a tiny Christmas tree that she’s balanced on top of my books, covered it in tinsel, and topped it with what looks like an origami star.

“It's...”

“If you say awful, I'm going back out in the snow.”

“Don't even joke about that.” The words come out sharper than intended, and she blinks in surprise. Softer, I add, “It's nice. Different, but nice.”

Her whole face lights up, brighter than any of the twinkling decorations. “Really? Because I was worried you'd hate it. I mean, I know I probably overstepped, but everything just looked so... lonely. And no one should be lonely on Christmas Eve, not even grumpy mountain men who pretend they don't like it when someone brings a little joy into their life.”

She's standing so close now, looking up at me with those warm brown eyes, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to lean down and taste her smile. The Christmas lights reflect against her face, highlighting the flush in her cheeks and the slight part of her lips. Her ridiculous reindeer sweater nose blinks in time with my pounding heart, and somehow even that feels perfect in this moment.

My hand moves of its own accord, cupping her face as my thumb traces her bottom lip. Her breath catches, and I feel it ghost across my skin, warm and sweet like the cocoa she mentioned earlier. The tinsel and lights she's strung everywhere seem to reflect in her eyes, creating a universe of sparkles that draws me in.

“Noelle,” I whisper, fighting the urge to close the distance. Every cell in my body screams to pull her closer, to finally discover if she tastes as sweet as she looks. The scent of pine and cinnamon surrounds us, and for the first time in years, my cabin feels like more than just a place to exist—it feels like Christmas.

“Yes, Sawyer.” Her voice is breathy, wanting, and her hands come to rest on my chest, fingers curling into the ridiculous sweater she convinced me to wear. The touch burns through the fabric, and I lean down, one hand sliding to her waist while the other remains gentle on her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed, dark lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, and just as I pull her flush against me, the temperature alarm in my greenhouse goes off.

“Fuck!”