It was like having big feet as it turned out. Brock hadn’t been kidding. After he helped me strap the big wooden things to my boots and strapped on his own, we began walking. It didn’t take long for me to see that snowshoeing was just that: having massive, giant-sized feet. Not to mention it was incredibly fun. Though the snow was already deep, our giant shoes crunched atop it easily, allowing us to leisurely tromp our way behind the cabin and deep into the snowy forest.

By now the air was alive with snow, the trees emitting a near-constant stream of flakes.

I started out treading the path Brock had made with his snowshoes, but soon I ventured out by myself, stomping out my own path in the snow. It was weird, this walking with big feet. It gave me a rush, a strange feeling of warm exhilaration amid all this cold ice. Even when I fell face-first into the snow, I only laughed, although my hands were immediately ice cold and red.

“Here,” Brock said, holding out his gloved hand, which I gladly accepted.

He lifted me until I was face-to-face with him. His brown beard was now flecked with snow, but his maple eyes were smoldering with fire.

“You okay?” he asked me softly.

“Yeah. I think so,” I said.

Brock brushed a snow-solidified strand of hair out of my face, and I let him, transfixed as I was by those tender, hazel eyes. His fingers lingered at my cheek, tracing down it and brushing over my lips. Then he was lowering his face to mine, bringing his lips to mine.

Amid the cold, swirling snow, touched by his cold, caressing fingers, his lips were warm.

When our lips touched, warmth blossomed through me, from my lips, down my throat, to my chest, down my arms, and to my hands, until they were clasping his face eagerly, our lips pressed together. While I had been freezing cold a minute ago, now I was entirely and utterly warm all over.

The snowy forest slid away; my job and identity fell to the wayside. All there was were those firm lips and this man—this handsome, dangerous, incredible man—his hands clasping mine and his lips tracing my jawline.

I lost myself in it, in the motions, the feelings, the want—which may have been why I stumbled forward and fell again. Brock caught me halfway, but I could see it was too late. He looked at me with a new consciousness of what he’d done, with guilty eyes that escaped my gaze as soon as they could.

He helped me up and then stepped back, murmuring, “I’m sorry.”

I put my hand on his chest.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

But he shook his head and stepped back again.

“I meant what I said, Alexa. I won’t be around for long—I can’t be. No matter how much I like you, this can’t work. You don’t know everything about me.”

I stared at him, at this cold, unfeeling-looking man who was almost unrecognizable from the warm man who had been kissing me moments ago. The truth bubbled up my throat: how I knew what he was, what he had been, the real reason I was here at all. But it stopped at my lips and then tumbled back down my throat.

I looked at him with cold, hard eyes myself and said, “Okay.”

We tramped back to the cabin in silence. The magic was gone. All that remained was the cold and the equally frigid realization of my stupidity. Kissing Brock Anderson—the target of all people, the man I was going to turn over to my client. What had I been thinking?

The snow was swirling down harder than ever; the whole world was one endlessly white series of trees with white flakes surging everywhere.

It seemed like forever had come and gone when we finally came to the snow-coated back of the cabin. I followed Brock inside and took off my coat and boots in silence.

“Good thing we have the fire,” Brock said, beelining for it.

He put in some logs and lit them with a lighter he got out of his pocket.

I flopped my shivering self on the couch, staring at the fire, at the fiery tongues flickering laughter at me.

“I’m sorry, Alexa,” he said, sitting beside me.

“It’s okay,” I said, not looking at him.

“No,” he said. “No, it’s not.”

He stood up.

“I’m going to make some more hot chocolate.”

I stared at the flames, wishing I could pick them up, take them in my hands, and take them outside, through the snow and down the path so that they could show me my way home. Why did I always have to go falling for the wrong guy?

The kettle rumbled to life, and then Brock said, “I’m adding Baileys to mine…you?”

I stared at the flames. As the “no” I should have said flickered along with them, a “sure” escaped my lips. Brock came over with two steaming cups a few minutes later and handed me one. At the sight of mine topped with more marshmallows than even I had put on last time, I couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, taking a small sip. “Yeah. It’s better than okay, thank you.”

And it was. All of it, the warm, soothing fireplace, the comfy, mahogany couch that I’d sunk into, the delicious hot chocolate and alcohol something, it was good. It was great, even.

“I’ll sleep down here tonight,” Brock said, sitting beside me. “You can have the loft.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Really, I can take the couch. Or…we could both fit in the loft?”

Brock shook his head.

“No way am I having you sleep on the couch. As for the loft…I don’t know. Want to have a look and see what you think?”

Putting my drink down, I climbed partway up the ladder, pretended to check the loft, and then climbed back down.

“It’s nice. Looks like enough room.”

With a nod, he reached into the bakery bag and extracted two cookies, one of which he handed to me.

“I’ve got an idea.”

Then, in one swift motion, he dipped his cookie into his drink and took a big bite.

Closing his eyes, he nodded slowly, said, “Knew it was a good idea.”

I did the same and found myself smiling as the chocolatey goodness seeped into my mouth.

“We’ve had a lot of good ideas today.”

He opened his eyes, caught my glance, and looked away.

“Yeah,” he murmured, and something told me he wasn’t just thinking of the cookies and hot chocolate.

And so we sat there, sipping our hot chocolate, dipping our cookies, and sneaking glances at each other out of the corner of our eyes, sinking further and further into the couch and each other. The fireplace was so warm and Brock was so warm and I was so warm, so very warm and happy. I closed my eyes and enjoyed it all: the rich hot chocolate and sugary marshmallow taste, Brock’s cedar smell, the warm buzzing feeling the alcohol was filling me with.

When I opened my eyes, Brock was inches away from me, his eyes on mine.

“I’m going to bed now,” he said.

“I’ll go too,” I said.

He didn’t move. I didn’t move.

Then, slowly, Brock inched toward me.

He took the same stray strand of hair between his fingers, tugged it with a half smile, and then tucked it behind my ear once more.

“Good night, Alexa.”

“Good night, Brock.”

Then he rose and offered me his hand. I accepted it and stopped inches from his face.

“Need help getting up there?”

I shook my head, stumbled to the ladder, and then gave him a rueful smile.

“Maybe.”

“Here,” he said, his hands on my waist, his lips by my ear. “Just take it one step at a time.”

And as I clambered my way up, his hands supported my waist, then thighs, then lower legs, it occurred to me that this wasn’t such bad advice for life in general.

At the top, I collapsed onto the sheets and rolled over to make room for Brock, who was on the bed a few seconds later.

The two of us tossed and turned as we made ourselves comfortable. Then there was a stillness, although my heart was anything but still. It was shaking with anticipation, with a silent, painful longing. I lay there for who knew how long in a tortured purgatory of half-wakefulness. Too tired to be awake but too anxious to sleep, as chunks of thoughts clattered through my head.

Was he still awake too? What if I turned around and kissed him and felt his cedar scent on my skin and his warm fingers in mine and let what was bottled up inside me break free? What if I climbed down the ladder and ran away, ran outside and drove into the snow, into the snow storm that was nothing compared to what was raging in my head?

I lay there in the loft bed, twisting with impossible want, wanting to stay and leave, wanting to embrace this man beside me and run as far away from him as I could.

Finally, I flopped to the other side of the bed, to the cold side of the pillow, and faced him.

My eyes were squeezed shut, and the bed jostled. He was moving too, but he didn’t touch me. No, I felt nothing but his gaze. My eyes were closed, my body still, and yet I knew he was watching me. I could feel it. I didn’t move. I didn’t open my eyes. If I opened them, my lips would be his and all would be lost. I needed this job. I couldn’t do this.

I lay there as seconds joined into minutes and became hours strung together into whole years. And, once nothing less than a century had rolled on past, I opened my eyes.

His face was inches from mine, his eyes on me. He had never stopped looking.

What happened next was what had always been going to happen next, what was inevitable from the first moment we laid eyes on each other. Our lips joined once more, our hands too. Our clothes slid off, and in the dark, warm, cedar loft, we became one.