Booked for Christmas

by Lily Menon

  The back door of the cabin opened, bringing with it a gust of frosty winter air. Wolfe followed, red-cheeked, tousle-haired, and shiny-eyed. The sky outside was pitch black, with not even a moon to mar the blackness. In the dim glow of the light inside the cabin, he looked like a healthy lumberjack, come home from a long day of hard labor.

  He took in the elaborate spread Sophie had laid out on the kitchen table ten minutes ago, when he’d texted her that he was on his way. “I—Oh, wow. What’s this?”

  Sophie hobbled from the kitchen to the table, her cheeks suddenly hot. The special-occasion hand-painted plates were definitely overkill. And the little sprig of pine she’d put into a bud vase in the center of the table to freshen things up. Oh, and the pretty jewel-toned placemats she thought would pull everything together.

  This had all seemed like a good idea when he wasn’t here, but now … now she felt a little stupid. Like she was trying to play the part of a diligent housewife or something. Which she was not.

  “Just some, um, hot cocoa and cookies.” She tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear. Wolfe continued to alternate staring at the table and at her, his hazel eyes wide. “I bought way too many for the party,” Sophie hurried on, when she couldn’t take the silence any longer. “And I figured they’d just go bad in the cupboard eventually. Also, snowshoeing burns a lot of calories, and loading all those heavy boxes in the van … I mean, if you don’t like hot cocoa or coo—”

  “Sophie.”

  She stopped talking and looked at him.

  A gentle smile touched the corners of his mouth. “This is really nice. Thank you.”

  He shut the door and unbuttoned his coat, draping it over the back of a chair before plopping down with a great big sigh. Melting snow dusted his dark hair, sparkling like diamonds.

  “Oh.” Sophie sat too, perched at the edge of her chair, still feeling a little unsure. Was Wolfe actually being un-sarcastic and nice again? “Sure.”

  He chewed a thumbprint cookie and swallowed it, then took a huge sip of hot cocoa before saying, “But you shouldn’t have done all this. I can’t imagine your ankle’s too happy with you right now.”

  Sophie had changed out of her snow pants into more comfortable sweatpants while Wolfe was gone (not an easy task when you only have one working foot), but even so, her ankle was beginning to throb. She raised her foot onto the adjacent chair and shrugged. “It’s not too bad.” She studied him; he was onto his third cookie already. “You did a lot of work for Gina—and me—today. She was really gushing about you.”

  He waved her off. “It really wasn’t that big a deal. I just felt bad for them, you know? Loading the van up while having to wade through all that snow—not fun when you’re twenty-five, let alone fifty-five. I was happy to do it.”

  “But still, carrying me this morning and then loading all those boxes. Those muscles of yours must be fatigued.” Sophie immediately raised her hot chocolate mug to her mouth to stop herself talking. Why the hell had she brought up him carrying her? And why was she talking about his muscles, for fuck’s sake?

  A corner of Wolfe’s mouth lifted. The hot cocoa mug sat in front of him, plumes of steam curling around his face, making him look like a very handsome vampire or a dark winter wizard. Or maybe that was just her imagination, running wild as usual. “I’m okay, but my muscles appreciate your concern.”

  Oh, god. Sophie’s cheeks were now as hot as the hot cocoa in her hand. She set the mug down and twisted her fingers together in her lap, under the table, where he couldn’t see. “Great. Yeah. Sure. Uh huh.”

  Setting his elbows on the table, Wolfe continued, “I owe you an apology.”

  Intrigued, Sophie’s hands went still. “For?”

  His steady eyes held hers. “I can see now that I’ve been too harsh on your books. Gina told me today about some more of the people on the list—folks who don’t have very much levity in their lives. I guess I got so caught up in how the stories don’t resonate for me that I forgot about all the others out there who need happy, fluffy stories exactly like yours to keep them going. So this is me, officially saying I’m sorry. I’m planning on writing a post for the column, too.” He gave her a half smile.

  “Wow.” Sophie sat back in her chair and breathed out. “I never in a hundred thousand years would’ve expected this—a full-blown, impassioned apology from the Lone Wolfe himself.” She looked up at the ceiling. “It’s a Christmas miracle!”

  “Don’t make me regret it, Hart,” Wolfe said, faux-frowning at her, his thick dark brows pulled together.

  Sophie laughed and picked up a sugar cookie decorated to look like a Christmas tree. After nibbling on it for a bit, she said, softly, “The stories don’t resonate with you.… Why is that, do you think?” She thought—but didn’t speak—of Hannah the mortician. What had he decided? Was he going to get back with her?

  Wolfe took a thoughtful sip of cocoa before setting the snowman-themed mug back down. “My past relationships, I guess. My friends’ constant breakups. And my parents’ marriage. None of it exactly inspires confidence, does it?” He gave her a piercing look. “By the way, your tarot card was totally wrong. I wouldn’t say my ex wanting to get back together with me is exactly an ‘exciting new relationship.’”

  “Maybe the tarot card is talking about a different new relationship that’ll happen once you’ve cleared the way for it.” Sophie paused and nibbled on her cookie some more. “Unless … unless you decided you want to take Hannah up on her offer?” She felt like she’d swallowed a peach pit that had lodged somewhere in her diaphragm, growing wings and beating against her rib cage.

  Wolfe held still for a long moment, long enough to make her squirm. Then he shook his head. His eyes didn’t leave hers for a second. “No. I’m not taking her up on it; that’s a path I don’t want to ever go down again. I had a lot of time to think while I was snowshoeing and moving the boxes, and … Hannah isn’t right for me. She never has been. To be honest—”

  Sophie frowned a little, her cookie forgotten on her plate as he abruptly stopped talking. “‘To be honest’ what?”

  Wolfe cupped his hands around his mug and looked into the cocoa before looking back up again. “Once we broke up last year, I realized I felt … happier. Like a giant boulder had been lifted off my chest.”

  Sophie sighed. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” She wrapped her arms around herself, looking past Wolfe to the window and the night-blackened snow. Suddenly, she felt very lonely.

  As if he could read her thoughts, Wolfe said, “Well, you might get your wish. Sounds like you might have something pretty exciting coming your way.”

  Sophie looked at him blankly. “Huh?”

  “You pulled The Lovers from the tarot deck last night, right?”

  Sophie smiled a little at that. “Yeah, it’s a pretty good card for someone looking for a meaningful relationship.”

  “Like you are.” Wolfe said it as a statement, not a question.

  Sophie nodded and held his gaze. “Like I am.”

  The moment bent and split and flowed around the two of them. Sophie felt like she was suspended in a long tunnel, at the end of which sat Wolfe. She felt pulled toward him, almost against her will. Before she could fully think about it, she stood and walked gingerly across the floor, around the table and toward him, her heart pounding furiously the whole time. He watched her come, his eyes dark and hooded. And then, when she was a step away, Sophie thought, What the hell am I doing? I just told Jonah I wasn’t ready for anything.

  She coughed and broke eye contact. “I can get your cup if you’re done with it.” She looked back in time to witness the brief flash of disappointment on his face. But it was gone so quickly, she thought she must’ve imagined it.

  “Sure. Thank you.” His voice was just as formal as hers.

  Sophie reached to take his cup and he reached to pick it up. The result was that their hands met in the middle, his big, warm palm cupping the back of her much smaller hand. Sophie ga
sped and leaped back as if he’d had one of those joke electric shock buttons hidden in his palm. Her hand jerked out in front of her, sending the not-actually-empty cup of hot cocoa flying. It sprayed an arc of cocoa all over Wolfe’s pale blue sweater, soaking him.

  “Oh, shit!” Sophie squeaked, staring in horror at what she’d done. Clumsiness level: Expert. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”

  “It’s fine. It’ll wash out.” Wolfe looked down at his sweater with less horror than Sophie would’ve expected, but then she was very protective about her clothes.

  “It might not, though.” She limped over to the kitchen sink, wet the dish towel hanging off the oven handle, and hobbled back to him as quickly as her puffy ankle would let her.

  “You’re going to re-injure that ankle,” Wolfe said, disapprovingly. “If this is a ploy to get me to carry you around, it’s not going to work.”

  “Ha-ha.” Sophie turned a chair around to sit in front of him and began to dab at the hot cocoa on his sweater with the wet dish towel. “I’m hoping getting the worst of it out will help limit staining.”

  It was only when Wolfe stiffened under her hand that she realized she’d been dabbing him in slow, circular, rhythmic motions all over his torso through his wet sweater. Awareness lit her mind like a Christmas tree lighting up the dark. She wasn’t thinking about cocoa stains anymore. Suddenly, Sophie’s brain was alight with knowledge of just how firm Wolfe’s pecs were, how well-defined and flat his abdomen was under her fingers, with just the thin layers of sweater and dish cloth separating them. Her fingers stuttered and stilled, her skin warm with desire. Sophie looked up to see that Wolfe’s face was very close to hers, near enough that she could tip forward just a few inches and press her mouth to his.

  His eyes were a warm, melting caramel, golden in the glow of lights in the cabin. Sophie’s writer brain insisted that they were smoldering. Her hand fell from his chest to his strong, solid thigh. Wolfe brought a fingertip to her cheek, caressing her with it from cheekbone to chin, his touch just a whisper along her skin. And still, her skin came alive with longing.

  Sophie’s eyes wanted to drift close. Her body wanted to lean into his, to let him take the weight of her. She wanted to climb into his lap, wanted to feel him pressing into her, wanted to feel his arousal.

  By the look in Wolfe’s dark, hooded eyes, he wanted the same things. His hands had slipped, one to cup her neck, the other just under her breast, pressing into her rib cage. He was breathing quickly, his pupils dilated. His body definitely, definitely wanted her.

  But there was something about his expression that gave her pause: Just a shadow across his face that said he’d been hurt before. There was a hint of vulnerability in the way he was looking at her, both desiring and hesitant, wanting to push forward and hold back.

  Old insecurities came to roost in Sophie’s mind like a flock of ravens. What if the hesitation was because he was, in fact, still hung up on Hannah? Hadn’t she learned her lesson with her previous relationships? A voice in the back of her mind told her she wasn’t meant for romance. For whatever reason, the universe had deemed her unfit for a great love so far. The best predictor of future events were past events, and if that was true, she needed to run—not walk—away.

  Her breathing unsteady and quick, Sophie pulled back. “I’m going to bed.”

  Wolfe’s eyes drifted to her mouth. “Okay.” His voice was deeper than usual, husky with want.

  Sophie stood, shaking her head, realizing he’d taken that as an invitation. Just the idea of him in her bed set her entire body trembling. She balled the dish towel in her hand just to have something to hang on to. “N-no. No, I mean, I’m going to bed. Alone. Goodnight.”

  Wolfe’s brought his hands to his lap, looking confused. He studied her, blinking his thick, dark, glossy eyelashes, a small furrow between his brows. “What—Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” she squeaked, her voice too high as she set the dish towel down. Already she was backing away in as dignified a manner as she could with one painful ankle. “Just, you know. Tired.” She did an elaborate stretch and yawn. From the look on Wolfe’s face, she wouldn’t be winning an Oscar anytime soon.

  But it was fine. In this moment, she just needed to get away, to run (well, speed-hobble) to her bedroom, and shut the door. He let her go without a word, but the silence in the room spoke pages.

  11

  Sophie sat on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands. Shit. Shit. That was probably the most awkward, horrible exit she’d ever made—including that time in college when she played Juliet’s nursemaid and tripped over her own feet on stage in the middle of an especially moving scene. She’d gone down in a big heap of old-fashioned skirts that billowed up and covered her head, exposing her legs and underwear to the delighted audience. Someone later told her there’d been a spotlight on her vag, as if to helpfully highlight what everyone should be looking at.

  This was so, so much worse.

  Sophie caught sight of herself in the mirror she’d nailed to her closet door. Her eyes were wide, her breathing harsh and labored, as if she’d had an encounter with a stampeding moose instead of a handsome, muscular, willing man straight out of one of her novels. “What is wrong with me?”

  The truth was, Wolfe scared her. Actually, he terrified her because he wasn’t what she’d expected—instead of an insufferable, elitist, condescending ass, she’d gotten to know someone hardworking and kind and willing to admit when he’d made a mistake. Someone she actually … liked. And that was more alarming than a hungry grizzly.

  When it came to romance, Sophie had a horrible track record; Wolfe wasn’t the only one who’d seen his love life go horribly wrong. Like she’d told Wolfe, she’d struck out three times in a row. What did that say about her?

  Besides, Sophie could think of so many reasons she and Wolfe were a terrible idea:

  1. He was as cynical as she was hopeful

  2. He was vulnerable and possibly nursing some deeply buried feelings for Mortician Hannah

  3. It was very likely he was just bored from being stuck in a cabin all day out in the middle of nowhere rather than actually, truly interested in her

  4. Sophie had never been a “just sex” kinda girl. Already, just thinking about sleeping with Wolfe, she was wondering if he’d be ready to date. Already, she was imagining his fingers entwined around hers as they walked in the snow. She was wondering if her Lovers tarot card had been about him—and his about her

  “For God’s sake, Soph,” she snapped, staring resolutely at her reflection in the mirror. “A man you find ridiculously attractive and captivating wants to take you to bed. You can’t just shrivel up and become a chump who’s too afraid to put herself out there. You want love? Well, this is how you find it. Maybe not with Wolfe—maybe you’re too different, and that’s fine. But this is your first step. This is the start of you saying yes to the universe, of proving that you’re ready for and worthy of true love. Come on. Nothing changes if nothing changes.”

  Sophie found herself standing up, careful not to put too much weight on her bad ankle. And then, very slowly, she unbuttoned her shirt and let it fall to the floor. Her bra was next, and then her pants and her underwear. When she was completely naked, she took her voluminous dark hair out of its ponytail and shook it out around her shoulders. Then, without thinking about it too much, she grabbed a pink robe from her closet and wrapped it around herself, feeling the silken fabric grazing her curves.

  Limping to the bedroom door, she opened it and walked out into the hallway.

  Wolfe was sitting fully dressed on the floor in front of the small brick fireplace. His arms loosely hugged his knees as he gazed into the flickering flames. From this angle, Sophie could mostly only see his back, muscular and strong. The tips of his dark hair glowed orange in the light. The lights—except for the twinkling ones on Bert the tree—were all out. It was perfectly romantic.

  It was perfectly petrifying.

  Before she could lose he
r nerve, Sophie cleared her throat. Wolfe turned, his eyes widening in surprise and then darkening with desire at seeing her standing in the doorway. Sophie knew, with the firelight on her, that he could probably see right through her skimpy robe. The idea made her pulse pound faster.

  He didn’t say anything, though he clenched his fists and swallowed, as if he was holding back strong emotion—maybe the caveman impulse to grab her and ravish her where she stood. He held steady, though, like a horse whisperer, waiting for the spooked horse to make the first move.

  “I have a scrapbook of all the shit you’ve said about my writing,” Sophie said, her hands loose at her sides. The heat from the fire spread across her cheeks, warmed her wavy hair. “I’ve made you a villain in my book and killed you off.”

  Wolfe’s eyes held hers, but he didn’t say anything. If the scrapbook thing freaked him out, he was hiding it pretty well.

  “We’re a bad idea,” Sophie continued. “Incompatible on every level. A writer and a book critic? It’s like an owl and a mouse trying to go out.”

  Wolfe’s voice was controlled and deep. His gaze pinned her, unrelenting. “I wouldn’t say that. Our differences just mean we fit together in interesting ways.”

  Sophie swallowed, her heart racing at the innuendo in his words. Wolfe sat there, cool and confident and seemingly relaxed, though a muscle in his jaw jumped, betraying him. The thought of him nervous—or at least unsettled—made her feel better. They were in this together. If this was a colossal mistake, she wasn’t alone in making it.

  Sophie’s hands, almost of their own accord, reached for the knot in her robe and untied it. She let the robe slip off her shoulders and fall to the floor and stood naked in front of him, the fire’s heat licking at her golden-brown skin.

  Wolfe’s eyes widened, his pupils dilating. He swallowed visibly again, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. He was riveted; an astronomer gazing at a supernova in the night sky. “Your skin is poetry, Sophie,” he murmured, his voice thick and deep. But still, he didn’t move. He didn’t rush to her, and Sophie was glad. She needed to be in control in this moment.