I zip my suitcase shut.
Cohen offered for me to ride with him and Noah.
Since I didn’t want to drive by myself, I took it.
Here we go again.
Crossing another line.
Cohen said he’d take the couch, so it’s not like we’re sharing a bed.
Ski North is a ski resort a few hours away from town that offers skiing, tubing, and other activities I know nothing about. They’re open year-round, and they use artificial snow when there isn’t any. I’m not an outdoorsy person, and when we traveled here for school field trips, I would hang out in the ski lodge—which will also happen on this trip.
Noah rambles nonstop the first two hours of the ride, telling us how excited he is to play in the snow.
Eventually, exhausted from his excitement, he passes out.
“I love my son to death,” Cohen says, stealing a glance at Noah, “but damn, silence can be a great thing sometimes.”
“Silence can be boring,” I reply.
“That why you work in the ER? You like chaos all the time?”
I shrug. “I like staying busy. It keeps me out of my head.”
“Same, but it’s so much better when it’s quiet, so your head can rest a moment.” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You like chaos. What else is different about Jamie Gentry now?”
“I thought you liked silence? Let’s try that the rest of the ride.”
He laughs. “Consider this our road game. We can make it chaotic if you want?”
I shift in my seat to glare at him.
“All right, you dated the Sprinkles heir—”
“Stop calling him that,” I cut in, playfully shoving him.
“Have you dated anyone else? Doughnut Doug’s son?”
“I am so strangling you in your sleep tonight.”
“Don’t make me scared to sleep on the couch.” He peeks back at Noah. “We have an hour. You entertain me. I’ll entertain you.”
“That sounds way more suggestive than it should.”
He lifts his chin. “Okay, Dr. Mind in the Gutter.”
I decide to give in. If he asks questions, then I get to ask questions. Although I’m not sure if I want to know anything pertaining to his dating life. Maybe I’ll get deeper, ask him his darkest secrets, what he thinks about when he jacks off at night, stuff that will make him squirm, as he enjoys doing to me.
“Fine, I’ve dated some, but it was hard in med school. I thought I’d make up for it after graduating, but dating seems to be at the bottom of my to-do list.” I jokingly punch his arm and decide against asking him make-him-squirm questions. It’d open a door, but he’d do the same—or worse. “What about you?”
“I’ve dated some, not much.” There’s no squirming on his part.
I suck.
“Dated women who like answering your phone.” As much as I hate talking about the call, I’m also mean, as I love hearing him say she means nothing to him.
“I have not dated, am not dating, nor will I ever date Becca,” he grinds out, the subject irritating him.
“She sure made it seem like you were.”
“She was jealous.”
“Jealous?” I poke my chest and squint at him. “Jealous of what?”
“Of the gorgeous woman who called my phone.”
His answer should make me smile, giddy, but it does the opposite.
“Don’t say that,” I mutter.
“What?”
“A gorgeous woman?” I roll my eyes, possibly seeming bitchy, but from what I’ve witnessed, Cohen has his fair share of gorgeous women who don’t sport scrubs and Cheeto cheese on their lips instead of pink lipstick.
“I’m confused about how Becca looked makes you any less gorgeous.”
I snort.
“Wait.” He lowers his voice. “Do you seriously not believe I’m attracted to you?”
Just as I’m about to answer—well, just as I’m thinking of an answer—Noah saves me.
“I have to potty,” he whines. “Really, really bad.”
Cohen sends me one last puzzled look. “Looks like a pit stop is in order.”
“Nope, not happening,” I say. “Over my dead body, which will happen. My body will be dead if I do this.”
As soon as we arrived at Ski North, nobody wanted to go along with my brilliant plan of getting settled before hitting the slopes—or not hitting the slopes and grabbing some hot chocolate from the ski lodge.
Everyone but me wanted to be outdoorsy.
Ew.
We loaded our bags into the cabin, and we’re now in the store thingy place where you rent shit to go down hills and break limbs.
“I promise, it’s super easy,” Grace says, patting my shoulder.
“Yeah, kids do it all the time,” Georgia pipes in.
“It’ll be fun,” Cohen says, joining the peer-pressure party.
“Breaking bones is not fun,” I grumble.
He chuckles. “You won’t break any bones.”
“I told you that I don’t do extreme sports. I do yoga. It’s safe and calming. Snow and velocity are not calming.”
He gestures to Noah and then Grace’s niece, Raven, suiting up. “The kids are doing it.”
“All the kids are doing it,” I mock. “You’re like the cute kid in class, asking me to do PCP.”
He leans in, his lips going to my ear, and he’s chuckling again through his words. “And you said I’m dramatic as fuck.”
I groan when he pulls away. “Being a doctor has taught me to take extra precautions. I’ve witnessed too many accidents from people with better coordination than me, a girl who never picked up the skill of jumping rope.”
Cohen holds out his hand. “I’ll bet you fifty bucks you won’t fall—or at least, you won’t break something.”
“Why would you make that bet? I can easily fall right now and win that fifty.”
“Because I know you won’t, and you like to play fair.”
I frown. “Fifty bucks isn’t worth a broken bone.”
He throws his head back. “We’ll put you on the beginner hill with the kids.”
“No thanks on seeing elementary students ski better than me.” I glance around. “Maybe I’ll try the snow-tubing thing. The chances of me not smacking into a tree in a tube might be better odds.”
“Actually, it’s not.”
I groan.
“What if I hold your hand?”
“That sounds more dangerous.”
“Come on, Jamie!” Noah says.
“You got this!” Georgia adds.
I feel like such a fun-sucking loser.
“All right”—I throw my arms out and then allow them to slump to my sides—“I’ll do it.”
“I told you it was a bad idea,” I grumble, shooting Cohen a death glare.
I should’ve never gone down that hill—beginner or not.
Just like I said, skiing is not a good time. You slide down a snowy hill with no helmet—or if you’re like me, you tumble down a snowy hill with no helmet. I’m not sure what went wrong, but I lost my footing and tripped.
It went downhill from there—literally.
“Wrong. You said you’d break something,” Cohen argues, handing me a Ziploc bag filled with ice and wrapped in a paper towel. “All your bones are in place.”
“But my ankle is as swollen as the tree I hit.”
Not swollen or painful enough to go to the hospital.
It just sucks.
Not to mention, it was embarrassing.
More humiliating than me trying to drunkenly make out with Cohen forever ago.
Kids—yes, kids—were staring at me, a few of them stopping gracefully on their skis to help me after my fall. I was tempted to go home, but Noah came running over to me, giving me a big hug, so I decided to stay.
“The swelling will go down,” he says. “We’ll try again tomorrow. I wonder if they make ski training wheels.”
I roll my eyes and place the ice on my ankle. “You’re smoking crack if you think I’m hanging out on Murder Hill again.”
“What will you do then? Become a snow-lodge bunny?”
“Damn straight.”
We’re in the cabin, and thankfully, I dropped my bag into the bedroom upstairs before my accident. It’s a decent-sized cabin with a large kitchen and a living room, and it’s decorated how you’d expect a ski cabin to be—an antler chandelier, pillows, blankets, beds, curtains with bears on them, and a comfy plaid couch.
He jerks his head toward the staircase. “Do you need a piggyback ride to your room?”
I shoot him a dirty look.
He turns around and bends down, showing me his back. “Come on. Hop on.”
Noah is sleeping. He exhausted themselves skiing today. Tomorrow, they’re going out again
“Ugh, fine.” I slide the ice bag into the pocket of my pants, and he assists me onto his back.
“Piggyback might not be the best idea.” He snaps his fingers before placing me back to my feet. “Stand.”
“What?” I stare at him, unblinking.
He waits for me to do as he said.
I sit, clasp my hand around his shoulder, and lift myself, using his body as leverage. As soon as my feet graze the floor, he picks me up in his arms, wedding-style, and I gasp.
“This is going to be much easier.”
I clasp my arms around his neck, tucking myself into his body, and the aroma of his aftershave relaxes me. I love it. It’s masculine with a hint of menthol and officially my favorite smell. I’d love to wake up with my sheets smelling like him.
Just as soon as it seems he’s lifted me into his arms, he’s up the stairs and carefully depositing me on the bed.
“I’ll be in the living room if you need me,” he says, walking backward and stopping in the doorway. “Yell before your uncoordinated ass comes down in the morning. I can’t have you falling down the stairs.” He taps his knuckles against the door. “Open or shut?”
“Shut, please,” I croak out.
“Good night, Jamie.”
I love the way he says that to me.
There’s always a burn of gentleness in his tone.
“Good night, Cohen.” I shut my eyes, inhaling a deep breath, and just as I’m opening them, he’s closing the door.
After my skiing tragedy, I asked Georgia to grab my pajamas and toothbrush from my suitcase. We went into the restroom, where she helped me change, rolling the bottom of my flannel pants up to give my ankle room to be its new swollen self, and I brushed my teeth.
I fluff my pillow a few times before snuggling into bed, whiffing Cohen’s aftershave that somehow rubbed onto my skin while wishing he were lying next to me.
I set my iPad to the side when Cohen sits next to me on the couch in the ski lodge.
I’ve been hanging out here all day in my snow-bunny outfit to match the feel of the place. If I’m not skiing, I might as well look cute in my chunky white sweater and black velvet leggings.
I brought snow boots, too, but swollen ankle.
We had a birthday lunch for Noah, and then everyone, except me, went skiing.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Just as I came prepared to look hot on this trip, Cohen did too. Although I’m not sure if that was his reasoning behind his puffy black vest bunched over a gray sweatshirt.
“Figured you could use the company.” He hands me a mug. “Hot chocolate?”
I take a sip before pushing my arm out, holding the mug away from me and scrunching up my face. “Jesus.” My voice lowers. “Did you spike the hot chocolate?”
A sly smile passes over his lips. “I might have added a few drops of Fireball in there.”
“This’d better not be an attempt to get me drunk and back on that hill.”
“Negative. You can’t even ski sober, let alone drunk.”
“Rude.”
I wrap both hands around the mug and take a slow sip. Good thing my grasp is tight because my body goes into freak-out mode when he sets his mug down and grabs my foot to examine my ankle.
“The swelling has gone down.”
I stare down at it. “Thank God.”
I shiver, my blood tingling, when he starts massaging my ankle, his abrasive fingers gently stroking my skin.
“At least you can say you’ve skied before.”
It takes me a minute to gain control of my voice, and his touch is soothing, relaxing my body. “I’m never telling anyone about that ski nightmare.”
“Jamie has never skied—got it.”
“You don’t have to hang out with me,” I say. “You can hang out with Noah.”
“I got ditched for a hot tub and air hockey at the girls’ cabin. Noah is loving hanging out with Grace’s niece.” He rests my ankle in his lap, his hand not leaving it, and relaxes. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
“And I’m sorry you got hurt.”
I laugh. “I’m blaming you for that one, Mr. You Won’t Get Hurt. Next time, we’re doing something safer that doesn’t involve coordination.”
He gestures to my ankle. “You want to head back to the cabin and put some more ice on this?”
I nod, biting into my lip.
Thankfully, I packed a pair of Birkenstocks and have been wearing them since last night. He grabs them from the floor and slips one onto my hurt foot, and I slide my other foot into the shoe after he helps me up.
Our arms are looped together so he can help stabilize me while we walk to the cabin. He settles me onto the couch when we make it inside, lifts my body so I’m lying down across it, and asks if I need anything.
I shake my head. “Look at you. You’d make a pretty good doctor yourself.”
He straightens his vest collar. “Yeah, I know.”
I roll my eyes. “Dr. Cocky.”
I chew on my nails when he lifts my feet, plops down on the couch, and situates my foot onto his lap just as he did in the lodge.
This feels so personal, especially since we’re alone. The only other times we’ve not had Noah around are the night at the bar and when he took me home.
When he turns on the TV, it’s on a channel with an image of a burning fireplace.
A cheaper way to give it that cozy, warm cabin feeling.
He holds up the remote. “Anything you prefer to watch?”
I gesture to the TV. “This is my favorite show, actually.”
“Finally, I meet someone who shares the same taste as I do.” He releases a heavy breath. “If you ask me, I’d say this fireplace channel gives this place a romantic feel.”
I stiffen against the couch, hoping he doesn’t notice how tense my leg is, and snort. “Romance is the last type of feel we need at the moment.”
His fingers move up my ankle, casually making small circles along my skin. “Good point.”
My heart rages against my chest as the air in the room grows thinner, and though the fireplace isn’t real, it suddenly seems warmer. My mouth opens and then shuts as a somber silence happens.
“Fuck it,” he grumbles, shifting to face me. “Jamie, what the hell are we doing?”
The question sends a throb through my head … and my heart. It’s not a simple what are we doing question.
The answer isn’t a simple, Why, Cohen, we’re sitting on the couch in front of a faux fireplace.
Nor is it, We’re waiting for Noah to return, so we can act like we were never alone together.
The answer he’s looking for, the one I’m so terrified of giving, is something along the lines of, I have no idea, but the way my heart grows wild when you’re around or as you touch just my feet, I want more. We both want more, but we have to stop it. Shut it the hell down.
It’s a disaster waiting to happen.
A disaster, from the heated look and the need in his eyes, that will happen.
Unless I pull away.
Unless one of us comes to our senses.
And as much as I crave his touch, I’m terrified.
Fucking terrified.
Do I need to stay away from Cohen to stay away from heartbreak?
If something happens with Cohen, it’s not only our hearts that would be shredded.
It’d also gash so many others’—Noah’s and my parents’. They’d never look at me the same.
“Quit overthinking it,” Cohen grinds out. “Tell me what you want.”
His eyes are on mine as if he’s begging for an answer, a confirmation that what’s riding through him is also riding through me.
He grumbles, “Fuck it again,” and my breath hitches when he moves.
I shut my eyes, expecting him to drop my foot and leave. They fly open when I feel a weight over my body. Cohen has one hand resting on the back of the couch while the other moves to cup my face as he settles above me.
His eyes meet mine.
No bullshitting him allowed.
This is when I turn stupid.
When I decide not to answer him with words but with my lips.
I wet them before tilting my head forward and brushing them against his.
He hesitates, shocked, but then crashes his onto mine.
Our kiss turns deeper, and I moan when his tongue slides along the crease of my lips. I open, allowing him entry, and he tastes like Fireball and chocolate as our tongues meet.
Cinnamon has never tasted so delicious.
He groans into my mouth, raw and rough, and I part my thighs in invitation, and he slides between them. I groan, soft and shuddering, when he jerks his hips forward, and the buckle of his jeans brushes against my core over my leggings. They’re thin, as are my lace panties, and the friction ignites a fire through me.
“Oh my God,” I whimper, bucking my hips, silently begging for more.
What he gives is better.
My pulse races when he pulls away, our breathing ragged, and his gaze captures mine while he levels himself on his knees before unzipping his vest.
It’s not the hot chocolate intoxicating me.
It’s him.
The vest drops off his shoulders and lands on the floor. I bend forward to drag off his sweatshirt next. Waves of lust coil through me as my hand lands on his six-pack and then drifts up his muscular chest. My eyes drop to his waist, eyeing his hard-as-a-rock erection through his pants.
“I want you, Jamie,” he says, his voice thick.
Desire runs through my veins as we frantically start moving. It’s not easy—with my hurt ankle, the narrow couch, and through the thick layers of clothes.
Damn ski-lodge clothes.
Why do you need to be so layered, heavy, and complicated?
Our breathing is heavy, and when he pulls away, his pants are unbuckled, his shirt is gone, and my bra strap is hanging loose over my shoulder. My tongue darts out, and I lick my lips again while waiting for his next move. His strong hand slides up my leg, between my thighs, and he cups me through my leggings. Skillfully, he rubs the base of his thumb against my clit. I gyrate my hips, grinding against his touch, and frown when he stops. That frown turns upside down when he moves his hand and shoves it inside my leggings.
“Open wider for me, baby,” he groans. “Give me more room to play with you.”
I do as I was told, my body shaking, and one of my legs falls off the couch. He draws back as he starts jerking my leggings and panties down my body, careful of my ankle, and tosses them onto the floor.
My heart rate skyrockets at the realization that I’m bare in front of Cohen—in only a bra, no panties—and he sweeps his gaze up and down my body, drinking me in.
“I’ll keep saying it until you believe me,” he whispers. “You’re goddamn beautiful.” He slides a single finger along my slit, skimming it up and down. “You’re soaked for me.”
Back and forth, he moves.
Like a torturous asshole.
A gorgeous, torturous asshole.
“Cohen,” I hiss, “I need more.”
My back arches, coming off the couch, when he shoves two thick fingers inside me. I squeal, squirming underneath him, while he strokes me, his eyes on his fingers.
“Take off your pants,” I croak, meeting his thrusts. “Fuck me, Cohen.”
His gaze flicks up to meet mine. “You want me to fuck you, Jamie?”
Just as soon as the words leave his mouth, Noah’s voice screams through the cabin, “Dad! I want a hot tub for my birthday!”
Cohen’s fingers are out of me in seconds, and he jumps off the couch, scrambling for our clothes. I sit there, my hand on my chest, and my head is spinning. He slings my leggings to me, and there’s no way I’m getting them on.
“The blanket,” I yelp, pointing at a throw on a chair.
He tosses it along with my sweater to me at the same time he slips his shirt over his head.
Noah comes crashing into the room. “I want a hot tub for my birthday!”
Even though we’re covered and most likely in the clear, my heart hasn’t calmed. Cohen slides a hand down his shirt, smoothing it out, as I tighten the blanket around my waist.
How am I going to get these leggings back on without Noah seeing?
As if he can read my mind, Cohen tells Noah it’s time to brush his teeth.
My ankle throbs when I stand, and while keeping the blanket tight around me, I dash up the stairs, ignoring my ankle pain.
Cohen peeks his head into the doorway of my bedroom at the same time I pull my sweats up my waist, his eyes refusing to meet mine. “Can you watch him for a minute?”
“Yeah.” I rub my arms. “Sure.”
He nods in thanks, and I see his back as he rushes out of the cabin.