The Snuggle Is Real: A Cozy AF Christmas Page 2
In the morning, I load up the car, stop at the market, and head out of the city. It’s been a long ass time since I’ve left the grind, and I’ve never felt more ready to get a break from it all.
Chapter Four
Cozette
Two weeks. I’ve been here two weeks and I know that is two weeks too long… but oh my heart, I never want to leave.
After that first night when I discovered the Christmas ornaments, I took a long hot shower, debating the ethics involved in all of this.
In my heart, I know it is wrong to break and enter… but I also know that I’d rather have an hour, a day, a week of this make-believe life that I’ve created here than none at all.
So I woke the next morning and made the bed with care, washing the dishes after eating oatmeal for breakfast, and then mopped the kitchen floor. I may be a criminal, but I will be a tidy one.
I found chopped wood in a shed and made a fire — using up nearly all the kindling I could find to get it to catch. And I used a shovel to clear a path from my car to the porch. Then I washed the windows and used an ancient vacuum to clean the rugs.
Once everything felt clean, I began to carry the Christmas decorations downstairs.
However, an hour into the venture I realized that I was going to need a Christmas tree.
Finding an axe in the shed was easy, but trekking through the high, thick snow was less so. Still, I smiled up at the blue sky, frost nipping my nose, as I found a small evergreen not far from the cabin. I laughed at my ridiculousness as I worked to chop down the tree. I grew up in the city, so I’d never chopped a tree. Eventually though, it fell and I laughed, not having felt so free, so alive, in years.
After dragging it to the house, I impressed myself by managing to get it straight in the tree stand. I smiled at my little Christmas tree, feeling proud of my accomplishment.
Turning on the old radio tucked away on the bookshelf, I flipped the dial to a Christmas station, singing to myself as Jingle Bells filled the room. Each ornament was more beautiful than the last, glittering and sparkling, and my favorites were the ones with names embroidered on them. Joanne: Grandma, Tony: Grandpa, Luanne: Mother, Henry: Father, and Whitaker: Grandson. They were precious family heirlooms… but where was the family? Why were their decorations forgotten here at Christmas?
As the days passed, I settled into the house. Once the decorations were set up, I found myself choosing a book from the shelf and making hot cocoa, sitting by the fire and reading late into the night.
One day I spent the morning putting out a Christmas village on the mantel; another day I hiked through the woods behind the cabin and collected holly and cedar boughs, making wreaths as the snow began to fall outside.
I wished I had ingredients for Christmas goodies, and sorted through the pantry until I found something I could make. Fudge required chocolate chips — which I had, and evaporated milk — also in the cupboard. I ate plenty of pieces while reminding myself how to knit, having been taught by my grandma years and years ago. Because yes, in the hall closet I found a knitting basket with needles.
In the kitchen I also found the most special thing in the house — a recipe box. Each card had been handwritten by Grandma Joanne, recipes she cherished enough to transcribe and tuck into her little wooden box. There were sections for desserts, main courses, salads, but my favorite one was Christmas.
I wanted to make her menu so badly, I memorized the meal, thinking about her family enjoying it in this cozy little cabin at the table with six chairs. My heart ached for them, for their story. I wanted them to all be safe somewhere, together.
But I knew enough about life, about these forgotten treasures, to know that probably wasn’t the case.
So in their memory, I made their cabin the coziest place I’d ever set foot in. Stringing Christmas lights along the banister leading to the loft, tinsel garland over the door. I kept Christmas music on all day and I knit a scarf, wrapping it in paper and placing it under the tree. My offering, my gift, to these people who took me in without ever knowing it.
After two weeks of being here I’ve let down my guard because if anyone was planning on using this cabin for Christmas, they would have been here by now.
It’s Christmas Eve and I’m sitting here, on the couch with a crocheted afghan across my lap, the fire burning brightly, and a mug of cocoa at my side. Half-way through A Tale of Two Cities, I hear a car in the driveway.
I nearly spill my cocoa, I’m so startled. Telling myself to remain calm, I dog-ear the book, setting it and the mug aside, and run my fingers through my hair, pressing my lips together in fear.
I’m not ready for this Christmas fairy tale to end.
Is it the family, finally arriving for the holidays? Or is it Max or Joe? When they learn the money is gone, I don’t want to think about what they will do.
Regardless of who it is, I want to be brave, to be strong… but it’s hard. I look around the cabin, knowing very well it might be my last look.
I’m standing in front of the door when it pushes open. A man enters — a tall, broad-shouldered man with a stubbly jaw. He is carrying a cloth sack with a baguette sticking out of it, and he’s frowning, clearly confused.
But I’m not.
I know exactly who he is.
I’d know those brown eyes anywhere.
It’s Whitaker: Grandson.
And he’s come home for Christmas.
Chapter Five
Whitaker
I have no idea who she is or why she’s here.
For a moment, I think maybe I got something wrong. That I put the cabin on some vacation rental website during an episode of insomnia. Or did Bran send a housecleaner out here as a Christmas gift?
But no. I didn’t do that, and Bran doesn’t even know where the cabin is. And the moment this beautiful woman opens her mouth, she confirms she doesn’t belong here.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, tears in her bright green eyes. She has long brown hair, to her waist; it looks smooth and so damn soft, same as her skin. “I know it was wrong, Whitaker, and I’ll leave. I promise.”
“How do you know who I am?” I ask, walking toward her, looking around to try to figure out if she’s alone. “And who’s with you?”
“I’m by myself, I swear,” she says, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry.”
“And you know me how?” I ask, taking in the cabin. I haven’t seen it like this since Grandma died. Decorated to the gills, every last ornament on the tiniest, saddest-looking pine tree I ever did see. It’s crooked, and small, but if she’s the one who got it in here, I’d still say I’m impressed.
“I saw the photos, and the ornaments… your eyes. They are the same as when you were little.” Her eyes flick over to the framed family photo on the bookshelf. She must have been sitting on the couch when I knocked. Drinking cocoa. Reading Dickens. What an adorable sight. She’s even wearing one of my grandma’s old sweaters. Christmas red with pearls on the collar.
She notices. “I’m so sorry. I’ve intruded in the most horrific way. This isn’t mine, this is all yours and…” She covers her face as she begins to cry.
“It’s okay,” I say, stepping toward her, knowing she is certainly no threat to me. She is a sweetheart, and she’s in trouble. Why else would she have squatted at a stranger’s cabin in the middle of nowhere — at Christmas? “Do you want to tell me your name?”
Sniffling, she wipes her eyes and swallows, looking up at me. “I’m Cozy. Well, Cozette.”
“And I’m Whitaker Lancaster. And you’re right, this is my family’s cabin.”
“Are they joining you?” she asks softly, biting her bottom lip.
I shake my head, run a hand over my jaw. “No. They’ve all passed. I’m all that’s left of the Lancasters.”
She reaches out, placing a hand on my arm. “I’m so sorry, Whitaker. That’s horrible.”
“What about you? You’re here, alone, on Christmas Eve. Where is your famil
y?”
She pulls her hand back, and I regret asking the question because I’d much rather her be touching me.
“There’s nothing left of them, either…” Her words trail off and I see sorrow in her eyes. It breaks my heart because it’s Christmas — it should be a happy time. And I know my showing up ruined her plans. I feel stuck — I don’t want to intrude on what she has created for herself in my cabin, but still, this place is mine.
“I can pack my things,” she says. “I can…”
“I’m not gonna press you for answers, for an explanation,” I say. “No one would be staying in a stranger’s home unless they felt they were between a rock and a hard place. You can stay here, we can figure this all out later. But it’s Christmas, and I have a dinner to cook.”
“Why are you being kind to me?” she asks, sincerity in her eyes, her hands trembling as she presses them to her heart.
I step toward her, wanting her to believe I am no threat to her safety. In fact, I’m the opposite of a threat. “No one wants to be alone on Christmas.”
“Yet you came to the woods by yourself, to a cabin that’s been empty for a real long time. It seems you were looking to be alone,” she says, twisting her lips, searching my eyes for the truth.
“I needed out of the city. Away from the people I know there. I needed to breathe. Fresh air and a new view. I don’t mind your company, just everyone else’s.”
“But you don’t even know me,” she says, pressing me on my reasoning. “I could be the epitome of everything you were trying to avoid.”
I look at Cozy in her borrowed sweater. She’s set the scene for the most perfect Christmas. Wasn’t I just wishing for books by the fire and something warm to drink? “I have a feeling a woman who made this cabin look like this, who appreciates the nostalgia of a holiday that my grandmother so dearly loved, is someone special.”
“Your grandma’s ornaments are all so beautiful. They looked like they hadn’t been touched in years.”
“That sounds right,” I say, stepping into the kitchen. “My parents passed a little over a year ago and I haven’t been up here since. It felt too depressing, too many memories.”
She follows me into the kitchen. “And I’ve opened them all up. I’m sorry, again, I really am.”
“It’s okay, it’s actually pretty nice. It’s like I’m really coming home for Christmas.” I open the fridge and find it empty. On the counter is a small collection of boxed and canned food. I tense, realizing this woman must not have any money, her food supply is so low, and what she has been eating are hardly meals. She follows my gaze, and I’m guessing she’s reading the situation through my eyes.
“I don’t have much. This is all I have left,” she says, stepping toward her meager pantry. She blinks back tears. “I was in trouble, Whitaker. I had to leave where I’d been living and… I know this was wrong of me.”
“You don’t have to keep apologizing,” I tell her honestly. It pains me to see her so upset. She looks like a Christmas angel, and I want her to feel my concern, my care. I feel an overwhelming need to protect her, to keep her safe. “I’m glad you found my cabin when you needed it. Now, no more apologizing. I have a feast to cook.”
She smiles. “You brought food?”
“All the fixings.”
“Your grandma has a recipe box with her Christmas menu in it.” Her cheeks turn pink. “I’m not embarrassed to admit I memorized it.”
“You did?” I step toward her, wanting to fast-forward time, wishing we were close enough that I could wrap my arms around her narrow waist. That I could kiss her without scaring her away. She’s been hurt, that much is clear. And I decide then and there to make this Christmas the most wonderful time of Cozy’s year.
Chapter Six
Cozette
Whitaker is not like any man I’ve ever met before. Gentle, kind, intelligent. Did I mention gentle?
We stand in the kitchen and I feel his eyes on mine, taking me in. Usually around men I get scared, tense, preparing myself to be put down, hit, or worse. But I don’t feel threatened by Whitaker. I feel easy, like I can let my shoulders relax. Like my heart can stop pounding so hard.
Except, maybe not. Because Whitaker surprises me by taking my hand and holding it in his. “I’m glad we are spending Christmas together, Cozy. I mean it. I was just telling my buddy Bran how I needed a change of scenery, but maybe it wasn’t the scenery I was needing. Maybe it was meeting you.”
I smile, my body warming as he holds my hand, his thumb brushing against my skin.
“Now the real question is,” he says with a dimpled grin that has my belly flip-flopping, “can you cook?”
I laugh, relieved at his ease. “I think I can cook. At least I remember helping my grandma when I was younger. But I don’t usually have ingredients that are exactly gourmet.”
His dark brown eyes melt. “Don’t worry about that, I went shopping before I came. I’m gonna go to the car and grab my stuff.”
“Do you need any help?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Grab one of Granny’s aprons, and turn the oven on to 350 degrees.”
“Got it,” I say, smiling as he turns to the front door. I feel a giddy excitement as I turn the oven on, then reach for one of the aprons hanging on a hook by the kitchen door. It is green, with sprigs of holly all over it, and I tie a bow in the back, then smooth down my hair, feeling excitement roll though me.
Gosh, Whitaker is handsome… strong and tall, muscular, and his eyes. They make my knees all weak. And his touch? It sent a jolt of desire through me I have never felt before. It makes me want to touch him again, to see if the feeling can be replicated. Licking my lips, I have a sense it can.
Whitaker comes back into the house with his hands full and he makes a few trips to bring in his luggage. I take a sack of groceries and begin unpacking them, amazed at the luxurious items he bought. Wine, champagne, whiskey… fancy cheeses and organic maple syrup, a loaf of challah bread… everything to make a Christmas dinner, and my mouth waters as I think about the ham and potatoes.
“What do you think?” he asks, carrying in a tub of pots and pans, even his own knives.
“I think you know exactly what you’re doing in the kitchen.”
He laughs. “I love to cook. Went to culinary school, even.”
“Are you a chef?” I ask, watching as he pulls out a cutting board. Then he washes his hands and I follow suit, hip to hip at the kitchen sink.
“Not even close. I make apps for food delivery services.”
“Like SuperEat?” I ask, remembering the name of the app Max used when ordering takeout.
“That’s one of them.”
“Wow,” I say, impressed. “You make apps and can cook. What else can you do, Whitaker?”
He chuckles, drying his hands on a towel, then handing it to me. We turn, side by side, to the spread of food before us. He smiles, looking over at me. “I’m not too bad at gin rummy.”
I laugh, not expecting that. “I’m pretty good at cards myself.”
“Might have to test your skills later,” he says, reaching for an onion.
My eyebrows raise, liking the sound of there being a later. “But first, you need to put me to work. I can slice, dice and wash dishes. Just tell me what to do as your sous chef.”
He wraps an arm around my waist. “Is it weird that I feel incredibly happy to have you here with me?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not weird. I was thinking the same thing.” I decide to be brave and admit what I’m really thinking. “My Christmas wish was to find a safe place and you feel safe, Whitaker. You make me feel really safe.”
His hand on my hip feels so right, and there is a charged energy between us, my core hot as we stand together, our breaths shallow. If we were face to face I’d want to stand on my tiptoes and press my lips to his.
“How about we drink to that?” he asks, reaching for a bottle of wine.
I nod. “That sounds perfect.”
I’ve been struggling for years, but right now there is no struggle. There is no ache for something I don’t have. Whitaker takes my glass and sets it on the counter, then he takes my hand.
“Dance with me while the dinner cooks.” His other arm wraps around my waist.
Our bodies press together, the lights from the Christmas tree sparkling as we move as one. Outside, the snow falls and so do I. I just met the man, but already I am falling, hard.
I know there is a shelf life on this sort of happiness – eventually Joe and Max will find me. My stomach falls, knowing when they find me, they very well might make Whitaker pay.
Chapter Seven
Whitaker
She was a stranger a few hours ago, but now as we sit at the table with a platter piled high with all the fixings, she feels like someone I’ve known for years.
“Are you like this with everyone, putting people instantly at ease?” I ask as I butter a roll.
Her eyebrows lift. “Not at all. I usually hide in the background. I’m never front and center.”
“Why? You seem so naturally warm, welcoming.”
She picks up her fork, smoothing the potatoes on her plate. “My life for the last three years has been… complicated. I left high school without any family and… I ended up in a bad situation.”
“A bad boyfriend?”
She shakes her head. “No, not really. It was more like… I was living with people and in exchange for the room and board I did the cooking and cleaning.”