Hunter, who was supposed to be in Madrid, was instead standing in the doorframe of her family’s cabin on the other side of the world in Vermont. Whether he’d just gotten there or was preparing to leave, Roxanne couldn’t even begin to guess, because Hunter was always dressed like he was coming or going, and never like he was happy to be standing still in one place. Even his body was a thing of constant motion—his knees always slightly bent, and his hair moving of its own accord regardless of whether there was a breeze or not. Whichever direction he was headed, he was flawless as usual, in dark denim jeans and leather boots that were paired with perfectly color-coordinated layers that clung to his shoulders and torso like they’d been made just for his body, which they probably had. Wisps of artfully arranged hair flared out of the rim of his knit cap, and his face was covered in the kind of five o’clock shadow that took a few days and careful trimming to achieve.

No one would ever look at Hunter Hollister and say that he was anything other than perfect, but right now, at this second, he was the last person that Roxanne wanted to see.

“Hunter?” she asked, feeling dumb to state the obvious but not quite sure she believed her eyes. It was completely impossible that Hunter would be standing right in front of her. “What are you doing here? I thought you were overseas?”

If he’d guessed that his girlfriend was about to kiss the strapping ranger standing beside her under the mistletoe, Hunter’s face didn't show it. Everything about his expression was smooth and cool, and utterly devoid of emotion—the picture-perfect mask of someone trained to smile. When his eyes finally landed on hers, even Roxanne couldn't decode them, and they’d been dating for going on four years.

He smiled, flashing brilliantly white teeth so bright that they rivaled the snow, and spread his hands out wide in front of him. “Surprise babe,” he said in a voice that dripped with a perfect mixture of sincerity and sarcasm. “You really think I’d miss spending Christmas with my girlfriend?”

The emphasis on the word “girlfriend” was blatant, and Roxanne felt Mark go rigid beside her, then watched as he stiffly extended his hand to Hunter. It was one of those automatic gestures that men did, especially the ones that had been raised on old-fashioned manners, as she’d presumed Mark to be based on her limited knowledge of him. Hunter could have been a King Cobra rising up in front of them, and the ranger might still have tried to play nice and get along.

“Mark Foster,” he introduced himself. His voice sounded tight, and he wasn’t smiling. He hadn’t moved when Roxanne had pulled away from him, but he had somehow managed to edge himself just a little bit in front of her, positioning himself between her and the man in the door. Depending on one’s perception, it might have been protectiveness, or possessiveness. It might have even been a little of both.

Hunter let Mark’s hang a heartbeat too long before he accepted it with a gracious smile, the face of the pricey TAG Heuer watch on his wrist flashing under the lights. “Hunter Hollister,” he said formally. “Thank you so much for helping Roxanne get home, Ranger.” He dropped Mark’s hand and turned his gaze to her. “Let’s get you in and cleaned up, babe. Your mother has been brewing a pot of wassail all day and it smells heavenly.” He gave her outfit an appraising look as if noticing it for the first time. When he eyes got to the fluffy parka, his nose crinkled. “What are you wearing? Thank God no one had to see you like this.”

“Oh.” Roxanne blinked rapidly a few times, remembering that she was still wearing the Mark’s sister’s things, and reached up to unzip her borrowed winter parka. “I completely forgot. You’ll want to get this back to Maggie.”

His hand free of Hunter’s, Mark moved to stop her hand with his and stopped just short of touching her. “Don’t worry about it,” he croaked in that still-tight voice. “You might need it. I can pick it up another time.”

Roxanne smiled, and then heard the message hidden inside Mark’s words. “You’re still coming tomorrow for Christmas dinner, right,” she asked, knowing that it was a bad idea to push the invitation but not able to help herself. Things were suddenly moving too fast. She heard the sound of jingle bells in her ears again, but this time they sounded far away and sad.

“Actually,” Mark said, avoiding eye contact but trying to hide it with a smile. “Perhaps it’s not a great idea. It seems like you’ve got a full house already, and I hate to be a bother. The invite was more than enough of a thanks, really.” He looked at her then, and she saw her own disappointment reflected in his eyes.

The nagging pit in Roxanne’s stomach lurched and swallowed what was left of her grinchy heart. She knew rejection when she encountered it, and felt herself go into self-preservation mode. She inhaled briskly and put on a smile so practiced and cool that it made Hunter’s version look amateurish. Spencer would have been proud of the way she pushed one side of her mouth a little higher than the other so that her face morphed instantly from optimistic to unimpressed and righted her posture so that she seemed to grow three inches, all of them ice. It wasn’t just her writing skills that had helped her up the rungs of Vogue—Roxanne knew how to play the game as well as the best. Despite her frustration at his sudden appearance, Roxanne automatically took a step toward Hunter, putting herself between the two men.

Seeing the expression on Roxanne’s face, Mark’s smile faltered. He blinked a few times, and then pulled a business card out of his pocket, and Roxanne plucked it carefully from his fingertips so that the tips of their gloves didn’t even get a chance to touch. She arched her eyebrows in an unspoken question.

“Henry over at Henry Hauls owes me a favor,” Mark explained. “Give him a shout when you’re ready for your car. He’s expecting your call.”

Roxanne swallowed heavily, and forced her voice to remain aloof when it slid between her lips. “Thanks,” was the most she could manage.

Mark nodded absently, and even with his head bowed she could see how his eyebrows furrowed. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it. When he finally looked up, he was wearing his own version of a polished smile, but his voice gave him away. “Have a Merry Christmas, Roxy,” he said, and then with one last sideways glance at Hunter he turned and walked out into the night, toward the Snowcat.

Hunter’s arm snaked around her waist and Roxanne fought the urge to recoil. His touch was stiffer than Mark’s had been, but familiar. “Roxy?” he echoed, the disdain obvious in his voice. “No one calls you Roxy. Who is that guy, anyway—Ranger who?”

“No one,” Roxanne said dismissively. She didn’t want to share the past twenty-four hours with Hunter, and she didn’t want her thoughts to wander away with Mark as she allowed herself to be pulled into the cabin, watching over her should as the no one who had become everything disappeared into the frozen darkness of Christmas Eve.