I wake to an empty room, lying beneath a set of warm covers with my clothes piled neatly at the foot of the bed. My head aches, eyes blurry, and throat dry as bone. I'm in a strange house, strange clothes. What happened last night?

Hot cocoa and whiskey. Snow and mistletoe.

My hands fly to my mouth. "Oh. My. God."

Not only did I show up uninvited to a stranger's home, I damn near climbed him like a tree. Now I'm in his house, alone – fully clothed, thankfully – in a bed.

I hurry to the end of the mattress, manage to clumsily shuck the foreign garments. I spot two white pills, glass of water, and note on the bedside table. Reading its jagged scrawl, my heart does a strange kind of summersault in my chest.

For your headache.

Coffee is on, cream in the fridge. I'm out on the property. Text me if you need anything.

-F.

At the bottom of the note is an untidy number. I accept the offered medication eagerly and pluck up my phone from where he'd placed it. I'd forgotten about it entirely, never thinking to send Connor or Rachel even the simplest of texts.

And I know I'm going to pay for that.

Ten missed calls from Connor. Six from Rachel. Twenty-four unread texts in total. They're going to kill me. Nice meeting you, Forest.

As I grip the phone, biting my lip in trepidation, it starts to ring. Connor's name flashes over the screen, and despite the instinct for self-preservation, I answer.

"Hey." The word barely leaves my lips before Connor's fills the receiver.

"Where the fuck are you, Nicasia?!" His raging voice splits my head like firewood. I cringe and rush from the room.

"I'm safe, don't worry," I mutter, my voice echoing as I clatter down the hallway, hurry to the kitchen for coffee.

"Don't worry?" He crackles over the line, like a bull preparing to charge. "You're fucking with me, right? Don't worry?"

I rub my forehead. "Stop yelling. I have a hangover."

"I'm hard-pressed to give a damn Nik! Where are you? I'm picking you up."

I chew my lip, wondering if I should tell him or dash down the road and pretend like I've been somewhere else.

But where? Shit. Not like I have a car.

"Um," I hesitate. "Do you know Forest Kirschner? I'm at his place."

The line goes silent. For a moment, I think he's hung up on me. Then his voice, deadly calm, chills my nerves to ice.

"Stay put."

"Connor!"

This time he really does hang up.

I hurry to find a bathroom, splash water on my face, finger-comb my long hair into something resembling order. I'm barely in my jacket and boots – dry, now – and out the door when my brother's shiny new Chevy pulls into the drive at breakneck speed.

Forest is walking from the barn toward the stables. He's dressed in a thick green hoodie, tattered jeans, and scuffed boots, hair up in a lazy man-bun. There's a bale of hay in his hands, a bored expression on his dark features. He glances first to me, then to the strange vehicle in the drive, and keeps walking toward the stables.

Connor dives from the seat, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burn white. "What did you do to her, you prick?"

My brother is big, but Forest is bigger. Maybe that's why Forest seems so apathetic. Nonchalantly, he pulls a knife from his belt and snaps the ties off the bale. Completely ignoring Connor, he starts loading flakes into a hay chute.

"Hey, asshole!" Connor tries again. "I'm talking to you." He starts to advance, seeming ready to put his fist down Forest's throat.

"Connor!" I snap, rushing forward and grabbing his arm. "Nothing happened."

"Bullshit." His gaze jerks to mine, hazel eyes on fire and blonde hair falling haphazardly across his forehead, as if he didn't sleep much. I feel suddenly guilty for my carelessness. Stupid.

"Seriously," I tug him toward the truck, trying to avoid a brawl. "I don't need you to fight for my honor; it's fully intact. Let's just go home."

"If this creep touched you –"

"He didn't," I fib. "Calm down. Nothing happened."

But he's too riled up, too on edge to think clearly. His fingers relax and refurl at his sides. I'm not sure which pisses him off more – being ignored or the prospect of my dignity.

"Get in the truck." Connor orders, eyes back on Forest. "I'm not finished with him."

"Dammit, Connor!"

He shoves me. "Get in the fucking truck!"

Forest reacts, then. It's slow, subtle, like cracks splintering under a glazed pond. Dangerous. He stands straight, calmly slides off his work gloves. Then he rolls up his sleeves and faces Connor. The gesture is clear—fight me.

Oh no. These two aren't decking it out over something that didn't-almost-maybe happen.

I grab my brother by his belt, yank him back. "Connor!"

"What?!"

"Please." I bring up the only two people in the world that have ever mollified him. "Think of Ainsley and Riley. What'll happen if Daddy comes home with a black eye and bloody knuckles?"

He glances down to me, back to Forest, but I recognize that look in his eyes. He won't fight, not if it will impact his kids. "Fine." He grits, jabs an accusing finger toward the other man. "Don't you dare come around my sister again, you hear me?"

Forest tips two fingers to his brow, then away in a mocking salute. His expression never changes, remains carefully neutral. Those eyes, however, shelter a rolling storm.

I ensure Connor actually gets in the truck before I hop in after him. Gravel flies as he floors it down the drive and back onto the forgotten country lane. I watch Forest in the side-view mirror as he pulls his gloves back on and returns to his duties.

Like nothing ever happened.

**

The week following is painfully tense between myself and my siblings. Both feed me local gossip stories, reasons why I need to stay away from Forest. I want to fight them, but the more I resist, the harder they come at me. So, I shut my mouth and let them talk themselves blue.

They don't know that I text him "Good morning" and "Home safe." Or that I've seen him nearly every day since our first meeting.

We spend most afternoons together; I sketch while he works. He's careful not to make physical contact with me but no longer glowers when I'm around. I just show up, find him, and follow like a baby chick. We talk about everything, from movies to sports, horses to artwork.

He watches me sometimes, sees a sketch progress, asks questions about materials, technique, brush strokes. In the same regard, I quiz him about life on a ranch, horse shows, and carriage maintenance.

He walks me home each night, sees me up to the hill. I blow him a kiss; he sends back that smart-ass salute. Then, deep into the night, I draw the way his eyes light up, how his lips quirk when he smiles, the tenderness with which he brushes Rusty. The way he watches me when he thinks I'm not paying attention.

What we don't talk about is the kiss. Like it never happened. Except I have the memory of his taste, his lips, his stubble-burn. I think about it as I lounge in Forest's stables, sketchbook propped on my knee, pencil working over the shape of Rusty's withers, his mane. My hands are covered in gray streaks, fingers chilly, but determined to finish.

Forest halters Rusty, coaxes his from the stall. The horse pushes his nose against the rider affectionately. Forest returns the gesture with a few pats to Rusty's face and a long scratch behind his ears.

Then he clips Rusty to two guide ropes, pulls a rubber comb from a tack box, and starts making long strokes over his giant body. It's languid, almost sensual. Somewhere in the middle of it, he strips his winter layers, leaving him in a dark tank and jeans.

"Come here." He orders, glancing at me with the hint of a smile.

I start, aware that I was vapidly checking him out. "What?"

He shifts, braces one of Rusty's massive hooves between muscular thighs. "Did you know horses have frogs in their feet?"

I set the sketchbook down and edge forward cautiously. He has this weird tool in his hand. One side has a metallic hook, the other a stiff-bristled brush. He drags the hook around the rim of the hoof, draws dirt and pebbles out. Then he outlines a spongy triangle, cleaves packed-down debris, brushes away dust and filth.

"This." He takes my hand, lays my fingers over the triangle of flesh. "Is the frog."

A spark echoes where our hands meet, brilliant and curious. It zings up my arm, burrows deep in my belly, just like the night of our kiss.

Then he drops me like I burned him. I staunch the hurt with a murmured, "Oh."

"That's what they feel. Everything else," he tacks hard on the horseshoe. "Is like a fingernail."

I glance up, meet his snow globe eyes. The storm is quiet, the color of dirty water. His eyes are drenched in hurt, dripping with need, and coated under frost.

A loud ping echoes in the silent barn, and I jump, yelping. Forest looks amused as I pull my phone from my pocket, see the name flashing across the screen. My jaw locks, and I fight the urge to huff out a curse as I toss the phone to the floor, having silenced the ringer.

Forest glances at it, frowns at the name – Xander – then his eyes shift back to mine. There's curiosity, wariness, and a forced front of indifference. I refuse to look away from his intense gaze, wait for him to ask.

Instead, he jabs the odd tool at me, "Your turn."

I almost fall backward. "What?"

Forest drops the hoof, advances. I retreat, completely intimidated by his sudden nearness, the heat of him. Those eyes make me feel deeper than naked, like he can see the doubts that have restrained me for so long. Then his storm riots again, gold flecks of lightning flash. I'm left breathless, that now-familiar burn starting in my body.

"Here." He presses the tool into my palm. "You want to sketch us; you need to know us, right?" He has me, and he knows it.

I look at the weird object in my hand. "What is it?"

"A pick." He explains. "Here."

Then, I'm pressed against his hips, a horse's hoof between our thighs. Rusty obliges, doesn't fight. I'm aware of Forest behind me, a furnace in these lukewarm stables.

"Rim around the hoof," he explains, guiding me through a slow scraaaape. He breathes, chest expanding, whispers into my neck. "There. Good. That way, you can find the frog, know not to hurt him."

"How long have you been doing this?" I find myself asking, mesmerized by the simple satisfaction of the act.

"My whole life." That rough voice beside my ear, deep in my core. "It was Dad's dream to retire on a ranch."

I don't say any more, not wanting to ruin the moment. I focus on his hands, massive around mine, firm, and gentle. He's practiced, perfect. This is more than a chore; it's a love he gives this animal. A thanks for the grueling workday.

"This is incredible," I say, except I'm not talking about frogs or picks.

Every place we touch sears with longing. I feel like a snowball in hell. There's no resisting it, this heat between us. I wish he'd give me a sign; tell me he feels it too.

We drop the last hoof with a clop in the sawdust, stand. "Thanks for your help," he says.

"Why is this town so afraid of you?" I blurt.

He blinks slowly under furrowed brows, jaw tense. For a moment, I think he won't answer, then, "I beat the crap of a guy in the park. Broad daylight."

I gasp. "Why?"

"Doesn't matter." Forest bends to the tack box, starts brushing out Rusty's long mane. "Told you – I'm not a good person."

No. "I don't believe that," I tell him. When he doesn't look up, I step forward. "Hey."

"Why are you still here?" He growls, picks a knot out of Rusty's hair with tender fingers. "That doesn't bother you?"

"You've heard my truth." I remind him, unwilling to back down. "Let me hear yours. That was the agreement."

"You were drunk."

"Drunk agreements don't count?"

A deep sigh, hands stroking Rusty's neck. Forest moves to the horse's head, holds it against his chest, searching for the words. I wish he'd take me in his arms like that.

"He eloped with my fiancée on Christmas Eve, left me standing like an idiot at the altar." The confession is gritted, dragged bloody, and mangled from his heart. "I felt like the whole fucking town knew about the affair. Everyone in on one big joke."

Oh, my God. "Forest..." I start, but there's nothing I can say.

I know what it feels like to be left behind. You hate them for being so selfish, despise that you still love them after they're gone. There's no remedy for betrayal.

"I got drunk, don't remember much after that. Woke up in a jail cell." Reaching up, he rubs Rusty's special spot, expression grim even as Rusty makes his horse-purr. "Kate insisted he not press charges, so I didn't serve any time. Doesn't matter, though. The whole town saw, knows."

Slowly, I step around him. He watches, storm alive in his gaze. When I reach for him, he doesn't move. When I wrap my arms around his waist, press my face against his back, hold him close, he shivers.

"We can do stupid things when we hurt." I console him.

"Spend Christmas and New Year's in a jail cell?" He gives a derisive laugh, even as his arms come across mine in a sort of backward hug. "That's pretty fucking stupid."

I press my lips into the furrow of his spine. He tenses, shudders, turns in my hold, so we're facing one another. With his thumb, he traces the line of my jaw, the shell of my ear, threads his fingers into my hair with such tenderness I'm sure my knees buckle. This is the first time he's truly touched me since that night.

The gritty gaze has calmed. In its wake is a hesitant smile. "Sounds like we both have horrible memories of this holiday."

"Horrible." I agree because I can't think with him so tantalizingly near.

His other hand comes up, frames my face. "Guess we'll have to make new ones."

I lick my lips, gaze dropping to his mouth. "Uh-huh."

Forest pulls me closer, tilts his head. His gaze flashes with yearning, puddles me with desire. I close my eyes, angle my jaw up. But he only presses a chaste kiss to my forehead, withdraws. "Thank you for not running away."

I want to scream in frustration. Just kiss me!

Instead, I do what I do best: deflect with humor. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

His eyes flash mischievously. "Guess I'll have to try harder."

I wrinkle my nose, poke out my tongue. "Do your worst."