One would think that after two days of being avoided, overlooked, and ignored by a handsome man, I'd give up. But I'm stubborn, and something about Forest draws me in.

So instead, I trek down the narrow backroads of Antioch, follow the directions on my phone to his address. I managed to acquire said address by sweet-talking Mrs. Stokoe, if only because she delighted at the idea of a woman in Forest's life again.

I'm sweating in my winter layers by the time I stumble onto his property, plunking down on a bale of hay with an exhausted sigh. A single-story home with a wrap-around porch sits poised on a creek embankment. There's a barn, stables, and paddocks sprawled like the branches of a snowflake. As the sun dips low on the horizon, the whole place looks fractal and chaotic.

A shadowed figure shovels snow from the main drive, cracks patches of ice with the point. "Forest!" I cry, standing and creeping closer.

He looks up, startled. Upon seeing me, he schools his features into a practiced blank expression.

Who hurt you?

"Nikki?" He asks, jamming the shovel into a mound of snow and coming toward me.

I want to capture the way he moves in paint. Not a swagger, exactly. Just a subtle, self-confident stride.

"Hey!" I smile in greeting, hasten my step. But I quickly encounter a patch of ice and end up sliding forward, feeling as if I'm on ice skates.

"Careful." He reaches me then and grasps ahold of my arm, jerking me to a stand-still. "What are you doing here?" There's a tone of warning in his voice, and I frown, pulling away.

"I wanted to see where you lived. So, I found a way." I tell him, waving my phone proudly.

Forest's expression shifts from irritation, begrudging surprise, suspicion, and then resignation. The stoic features hide what he's thinking, but I have a feeling it's less than flattering.

"Right, well, I'm headed inside." Forest's voice is clipped. "Since you're here, do you want a drink?"

"Sure," I say, deciding not to voice any of my smart-ass responses. "What do you have?"

"Whiskey."

He turns away; I follow dutifully. "And Coke, I hope."

Forest glances at me, one eyebrow raised in amusement. "Maybe."

Strategically spaced lights come on as we walk under them, illuminating our path and making it possible for me to avoid any more ice patches. Forest keeps looking back at me, checking my progress, helping me as needed. At one point, I slip and grasp him so tight that his shirt pulls, exposing a rose tattoo over his heart.

I want to ask about it but bite down the urge. He doesn't even want me to here. It would be overstepping to assault him with questions.

There's a dark look in Forest's eyes, one stronger than thunder, hotter than lightning. Fierce and unwavering. His jaw tenses under his short beard, then he rights me and steps away, clearing his throat. "Inside. It's colder than a witch's tit out here."

I chew my lip, nodding, no longer paying attention to my footing. My mind is racing with thoughts of Forest, everything about him. Everything I know, want to know.

Without noticing, I've crossed the yard and triggered the motion sensors on the porch. Illumination spears me, and I yelp. My heel catches on something slick. There's a crack, and my boot jerks free, sending my balance off-kilter. I flail as I tumble backward into the wet earth.

A shriek erupts from my throat, slicing through the peaceful night like a razor blade. My attempt to break the fall has me elbow-deep in a shattered puddle, sleeves soggy, and ice working its way under my coat. Cold soaks through my jeans, and slushy water slides past the fur lining of my boots. My head thumps into a pile of snow, coating my hair in a layer of white flurries.

I breathe out in shivering rasps, try to get my feet beneath me. Hands slide under my armpits and haul me up.

"Don't you watch where you put your damn feet?" Forest growls, capable hands at my waist the only thing keeping me upright.

I gasp out a laugh, fingers latching onto his arm. He tenses at my touch but doesn't pull away. Instead, he swings me up into his arms, bridal-style, and stomps toward the house.

I yelp, shocked at the closeness, the ease of the act. "I can walk!"

"Clearly not." He's so warm, so powerful. I cling to his shoulders, flex experimentally into the impressive muscle, the heated skin. I don't even notice when he unlocks the door.

Once over the threshold, Forest practically drops me in his haste to put distance between us. I plop to the wooden floor with a squelch and cringe inwardly at the awkward situation I've managed to put myself in.

Beside me, Forest is kicking off his boots and tossing his jacket over a dining chair. My teeth chatter as I shed my wet layers. My boots follow, then I debate what the hell do with the rest of my sodden clothes.

"Strip down. I'll get you something to wear." Forest says, voice coarse as he walks away.

I follow his retreating form with my eyes, shell-shocked, and shivering. Strip down? In the middle of the room? A nervous giggle escapes me, and I climb to my feet, eyes scanning over the foyer and adjacent areas.

To my surprise, the interior of Forest's ranch is homey and inviting. Through one doorway, a dining table spans an ornate room complete with a white tablecloth and red cushioned chairs. To my other side is a living area, boasting a worn green couch, two loveseats, and a state-of-the-art TV rig on the back wall. Long curtains drape from floor to ceiling.

"Oh, thank you, God." I cry, dashing toward the closest one and throwing myself behind it. Not ideal, but better than nothing.

"Nikki?" I freeze, poking only my head around the edge and peering out. Forest isn't visible, but I hear his exasperated sigh. "You're changing in my curtains."

I bristle. "Oh, shut up." A pile of clothes land at my feet.

"Meet me in the kitchen. Leave your clothes at the door." I swear I hear him mutter something like ridiculous under his breath.

Grouchily, I fist the garments and quickly exchange them for mine. He's given me a pair of baggy gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt with the words "Save a horse, ride a cowboy" across the chest. There's also a pair of black woolen socks that I'm incredibly grateful for. Pulling my hair over one shoulder, I kick my clothes to the door and cross my arms over my chest.

Now, where's the damn kitchen?

The sweet smell of cocoa floats toward me, and I let my nose lead the way. I follow a narrow corridor, passing closed doors and bare walls. Aside from the obvious, there's nothing to show Forest lives here—hardly anything to show that he's loved.

"In here." Forest's voice makes me jump.

Racked with cold, I hurry into a brightly lit room with an island and a few stools around it. The ceiling stretches up into a point, thick wooden support beams banding across. Dangling from one, just above an open door that clearly leads to a bedroom, is a single sprig of mistletoe.

Odd.

"Drink." Forest slides a mug across the island. I don't glance up from the steaming concoction as I fumble to press my numb fingers around it.

"Thank you," I whisper, smiling to myself.

I note the sprig of mint, the tiny marshmallows. Closing my eyes, I take a sip and moan. This is more than hot chocolate. There's the subtle burn of liquor, the delicious heat that starts in my chest. Whiskey. It tastes like Christmas morning, all wonder and cheer, warmth, and delight.

I sit with my eyes closed, savoring the bliss. Then he asks, "Better?" I open my eyes and nearly drop my cup.

He's shirtless.

What the –

Forest is sitting on a stool, entirely at ease. His forearms rest on the island, tumbler of whiskey between his open palms. Black waves fall forward, partially obscuring his gaze. My traitorous eyes slide down his jaw, along his strong throat, skitter over the dark smattering of chest hair. Muscle covers every exposed inch of him. His skin is a tantalizingly soft olive, gorgeous against the flowing reds and greens of the tattoo.

I feel my body react; heat floods my cheeks, an ache pools in my belly. I jerk, look away, flustered. I'm suddenly intensely interested in the pattern of marshmallows in my mug.

"Um, yeah, better," I say.

He doesn't respond, and I don't push. We're both silent, sipping our drinks, each daring the other to do something.

"Show me." He prompts.

I blink, compulsively gulp my too-hot cocoa. "What?"

"Show me," he repeats, slides me a piece of paper and a mechanical pencil. "How do you draw a horse?"

I struggle to tear away from his stormy snow globe gaze. Shifting the cocoa into my left hand, I take up the pencil. "Well...first, you start out with the basic shapes – circles, mostly."

Quick motions flit across the plain printer paper. First, a circle for the head, another for the chest, a third for the haunches. Then guidelines for the slope of the neck, the arch of the back. I lose myself in the lines, the shading, the shapes.

Rusty comes to life before our eyes. His body, hooves, muscle, and prickling hair around his velvet-soft muzzle become rendered in grays under the pencil's pressers. Hard here, soft there, the occasional smear of my fingers, adjustment, and paper angle.

"God," Forest murmurs, eyes as liquid as the geldings' on the page. "You're an amazing artist."

I flush, pulse thundering in my ears. "It's just a drawing."

"Draw a circle, draw another circle," he quotes me. "Draw the rest of the fucking horse. Nikki," his eyes, the woody scent of his cologne, threaten to smother me, "that's incredible."

"It's nothing," I deflect, shove the drawing toward him, take an impotent drag against my empty mug.

Adrenaline showers sparks of boldness through me. Easy, lightweight. I set the empty cup down and round the island, inching my way toward the open door at the periphery of the kitchen.

Forest watches me, eyes tumultuous. I see hope, ire, and want dance in their depths, coated under ice. "What're you doing?"

"Whose room is this?" I press my fingers against the doorframe.

Forest is on his feet, closing the distance between us in two quick strides. I smile when he grips my wrist, beam as he pulls me away. Got you.

"Stop." He orders gruffly.

I pause and spin toward him. Forest's breathing is ragged, pupils blown. His jaw ticks, tension echoing throughout his body.

"Why?" I hear the breathiness in my own voice. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, warning bells ring. I pay them no attention.

Be reckless, wallflower.

"It's my room," he grits.

I point up at the ceiling. "You missed one, Grinch."

Forest's gaze slides up. I offer him no time to gather himself.

My fingers clamp at the nape of his neck, hands drawing his face down to mine. Lips touch, hesitant at first. His beard prickles, makes me shudder. When I swipe my tongue over his lower lip, he stiffens. When I press for entrance, it's like setting off a firework.

I'm clinging to him, drawn like a moth to a flame. We clash, all fire and ice. His hands grip my hips so tightly I moan into his mouth. Then I'm up against him, backed into the doorframe, caged by his body. His knee bends, thigh pressing into the most intimate part of me, the friction delicious and damning.

"Mm," is the least obnoxious sound I can manage.

Just as quickly as I was captured, I'm released. His breathing is jagged, every muscle in his body humming with barely contained restraint. I meet his eyes, see the grit and the storm, torn between horror and the desire to hurl himself at me again.

Do it. I dare you.