His Contract Bride for Christmas

Two

Dani

By the time we reached the house, the snow had thickened, swirling around us in heavy, relentless gusts. Ryan carried his single duffel bag over his shoulder, his steps steady despite the icy path. I unlocked the door and pushed it open, letting him enter first.

The silence of the house was almost oppressive. I glanced around, suddenly hyperaware of the peeling wallpaper, the scuffed floorboards, and the faint, musty smell that no amount of candles could ever completely mask.

"It's... rustic," Ryan said, his tone neutral as he set his bag down by the door.

I stiffened, embarrassment flaring hot in my chest. "If you're expecting a five-star hotel, you're in the wrong place," I said, sharper than I intended.

He turned to me, his expression calm. "I didn't mean it as an insult. It feels... lived in. Like it has a history."

That caught me off guard, and I wasn't sure how to respond. Instead, I motioned toward the staircase. "The guest room is upstairs. Second door on the left. The bathroom's across the hall."

Ryan nodded, picking up his bag and heading up the creaky stairs without another word.

I exhaled, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. But before I could retreat to the kitchen to collect myself, a loud knock rattled the front door.

My stomach dropped. I didn't need to open it to know who it was.

Yanking the door open, I found myself face-to-face with Will, his expression stormy and his coat dusted with snow.

"Dani," he said, stepping forward before I could stop him. "We need to talk."

"No, we don't," I said, planting myself in his path. "I told you to leave."

His eyes flicked toward the staircase, his jaw tightening. "Who's the guy?"

"None of your business." Will scoffed, his frustration bubbling over.

"You're letting a stranger stay here? Are you out of your mind?"

"You don't get to judge me," I snapped. "Not after everything you've done."

"I'm trying to protect you," he said, his voice rising. "You think some random guy showing up in the middle of a snowstorm is a coincidence? He could be dangerous, Dani!"

"Dangerous?" Ryan's voice cut through the tension like a knife.

Will and I turned to see him standing at the top of the stairs, his hand resting lightly on the railing. His expression was unreadable, but a sharpness in his eyes made Will bristle.

"Who the hell are you?" Will demanded, his voice dripping with hostility.

"Ryan," he said, descending the stairs with a deliberate calmness. "And you must be the ex."

Will's face darkened. "This isn't your business, so stay out of it."

Ryan stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his height forcing Will to tilt his head slightly to meet his gaze. "It is my business. Dani offered me a room, and I intend to respect her space. Maybe you should do the same."

The room crackled with tension, the air thick enough to choke on. I stepped between them, my pulse pounding in my ears.

"Stop," I said, my voice trembling. "Both of you. This isn't helping."

Will's gaze softened slightly as he looked at me. "Dani, you don't have to do this. Let me help you. Sell me the house, and you won't have to deal with any of this."

"Selling this house is not an option," I said firmly. "And you need to leave. Now." Will hesitated, his expression torn between anger and something that looked almost like regret. Finally, he exhaled sharply and turned toward the door.

"This isn't over," he said, his voice low. "You're being stubborn, and it will cost you."

He slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the house.

For a moment, the only sound was the howling wind outside. I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.

"You okay?" Ryan's voice was softer now, and when I opened my eyes, I found him watching me with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

"I'm fine," I said, though the words felt hollow.

Ryan didn't press, but his gaze lingered. "If you need me to leave, just say the word."

"No," I said quickly, surprising even myself. "You're fine. Will's just... complicated."

Ryan nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "If he shows up again, let me know."

I didn't respond; instead, I offered him leftover dinner, coffee, and tea before retreating to the kitchen to collect my scattered thoughts.

As I leaned against the counter, staring out at the snow-covered yard, one thought circled in my head: inviting Ryan here might have been a mistake.

But it was a mistake I couldn't afford to undo.

The following morning, I woke to the faint light of dawn creeping through the lace curtains of the bedroom I'd claimed as my own after Grandma's passing. The house, usually so quiet it felt like a tomb, carried the soft creaks of movement downstairs. I could hear Ryan—a stranger still, though his presence already felt strangely woven into the fabric of this place—moving about. The low hum of the coffee machine kicking to life reached me, mingling with the faint scent of brewing coffee.

I sat up, brushing the tangled mess of hair from my face. My sweatshirt hung loosely on my shoulders as I padded barefoot down the stairs, the chill of the floorboards biting at my skin. The weight of the house pressed on me with every step. Its history, decay, and impending loss all felt heavier in the morning light.

When I reached the kitchen, I paused in the doorway. Ryan stood at the counter, his broad back to me as he poured steaming coffee into a mug. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, his posture casual, but something about him was an air of quiet confidence that made the room feel smaller. His white t-shirt clung to his muscular arms and shoulders. There was no other way to describe Ryan than angelic. Handsome felt too dull, beautiful didn't touch him, and s.e.x.y was an understatement.

He glanced over his shoulder and caught me watching. "Morning," he said, his voice low and smooth.

"Morning," I replied, stepping into the room. My voice sounded too loud, almost out of place in the quiet of the house.

"Hope I didn't wake you," he said, sipping his coffee.

"No, I was up," I lied. The truth was, his presence had stirred something in me—curiosity, maybe, or unease. I wasn't sure yet.

I moved to the stove and set the kettle on to boil. I don't usually drink tea or coffee, but today, I needed something—anything—to keep my hands busy.

"This place," Ryan said, his gaze drifting to the window, "has a charm to it. It feels like it's been through a lot."

I glanced at him, surprised. "It has. My grandmother built it herself after my grandfather passed. Every inch of it is hers."

Ryan nodded, his expression thoughtful. "It shows. You can feel the history here."

His words caught me off guard, and I found myself studying him more closely. There was a depth to his tone, a weight that suggested he understood more than he let on.

"What about you?" I asked, pouring hot water into a mug. "What brings you to Danville?"

He hesitated, just for a moment, before answering. "I needed a break from the usual. Heard about the art gala in the next town over and thought I'd check it out."

"An art gala?" I raised an eyebrow.

He smiled faintly. "Yeah. I'm not much of an artist, but I appreciate the work. And sometimes... it's just nice to be around beauty, you know?"

I nodded, though I wasn't sure I understood. My mind was already spinning with the day's looming problems—foreclosure notices, mounting bills, and the ever-present shadow of Will Fletcher.

Ryan must have noticed the shift in my expression because he asked, "What's on your mind?"

I hesitated. The last thing I wanted was to unload my problems on a stranger. But something about the way he asked and looked at me like he genuinely cared about the answer made me falter.

"Just... trying to figure out how to keep this house," I admitted quietly.

Ryan's gaze flicked to the stack of papers on the counter—legal notices, loan documents, and my grandmother's will. He didn't say anything, but the flicker of understanding in his eyes was enough to make my chest tighten.

"You're fighting for it," he said, not as a question but as a statement.

I nodded. "I have to. It's all I have left of her."

Ryan set his coffee down and leaned against the counter, his presence steady and grounding. "You'll figure it out. You seem like the kind of person who doesn't give up easily."

His words shouldn't have mattered—they were just words—but they settled something in me, a small crack of hope in the storm of doubt.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze of paperwork and quiet determination.

Ryan disappeared for a while, returning mid-afternoon with a stack of firewood and a toolbox. He didn't ask questions or offer unsolicited advice; he just got to work fixing the fireplace.

When the fire finally roared to life, the room filled with a warmth I hadn't felt in weeks. I sat back in my chair, staring at the flames, my mind still racing.

"Hey," Ryan said, breaking the silence. "I saw the list you made on the paper of ideas about selling paintings. I've always had an eye for antique work. Maybe I could help." I froze, my hands gripping the papers.

"They aren't antiques… I paint." I smiled sheepishly as he looked at me in surprise.

"You should put them in the art gallery I came to see! People come from all over for a glimpse at the next big thing," he said excitedly.

"That's not a good idea. I would just be embarrassed when no one bought anything." I glanced back at the papers, my resolve hardening.

My paintings aren't an option, but there must be one among these piles of paper, and I am determined to find it. Knowing it was November and the year was drawing to an end made my nerves shatter. Come January one, if the house's debt wasn't resolved, I would lose it forever.

Then what?...

As the fire crackled and the snow continued to fall outside, I found myself glancing at the papers again. The weight of the house's debt still loomed large, but it didn't feel insurmountable for the first time in a long time.