Page 1 of First Kissmas

1

COURTNEY

Ileave three days before Christmas, when my brother is sprawled unconscious on the couch. The lineup of empty bottles on the coffee table tells me he won’t wake up until morning. My hands shake as I grab my backpack—the one I packed and hid in my closet last week. Inside, I have everything I need: warm clothes, my documents, and the cash I’ve saved up over the past year.

The carpeted stairs muffle my footsteps. I know exactly where to step, which sections will stay silent. Six years of sneaking around this house have taught me every quiet path, every safe route.

But this time, I’m not just going to the kitchen for a late-night snack.

I ease the front door open, wincing at the creak of the hinges. The cold hits me immediately, stealing my breath. As I step onto the porch, the neighbor’s Christmas lights catch my attention. Their bright display illuminates the fresh snow, a sharp contrast to our dark, unkempt yard. I’ve spent too many holidays watching those lights from my bedroom window, dreaming of the day I’d finally leave.

I take one final look at the house, my brother’s soft snores drifting through the cracked window. Six years of protecting me, he always says. Six years of strict rules and endless lectures about the dangers lurking around every corner.

Not anymore.

Each step takes me further from the house, further from his control. I try to imagine what freedom will feel like—no more asking permission to leave the house, no more explaining where I’m going and who I’ll be with. The thought seems almost too good to be true, like something that happens to other people but couldn’t ever happen to me.

My breath forms small clouds in the cold air as I walk, each one carrying a silent prayer that I’ll actually make it.

The forecast had only called for light snow, but I’ve barely started out when the weather turns violent. Wind whips ice crystals against my face, and the cold seeps through my supposedly weatherproof gear. My toes are freezing in my boots, and the gloves do little to protect my aching fingers. The physical discomfort only amplifies my other fears.

Fear of what my brother will do when he wakes up. Fear of being found.

The low rumble of an engine breaks through my thoughts. Headlights sweep across the snowy ground behind me, and my muscles tense. But it’s not Eli’s SUV—it’s a truck, slowing as it approaches. I keep walking, my heart pounding against my ribs.

The vehicle crawls to a near stop beside me, and I glimpse the driver through my peripheral vision. He leans toward the passenger window, dashboard lights revealing features that make my pulse skip: strong jaw, broad shoulders, and eyes that catch what little light there is.

It’s been so long since I’ve been this close to a man who isn’t my brother that I almost forget to step back.

“Need a ride?” His voice is deep and gentle. But it’s the kind of voice that could be dangerous in its own way. “Weather’s getting worse.”

I step back, evaluating my options. The bus station is still four miles away. The snow is falling faster, and my toes have gone from cold to numb.

“I’m fine.” Every instinct screams at me to keep walking, to trust no one. But each gust of wind feels sharper than the last, and I’ve seen enough survival shows to know what frostbite can do.

“My name is Ryder Lawson,” he says, laying his hands on the top of his steering wheel. The movement draws attention to his thick fingers, which are marked with small scars and calluses. Working hands. “I’m on my way back from Hawthorne. Had to get some lamps to a client before the storm. I make them up on the mountain.”

Something in his calm demeanor makes me pause. My gut tells me this man is safe. But years of warnings and rules root my feet to the ground, even as another part of me responds to the gentleness in his voice, the patient way he waits for my decision.

“Is the bus depot on your way?” I ask, still maintaining my distance, fighting the urge to move closer.

“Yeah, I’ll pass right by it. Heat’s not the best in this old truck, but it’s better than walking in this weather.” He sits still, not reaching for the door, letting me choose. The snow catches in his dark hair, and I notice the subtle crinkles around his eyes—the kind that come from smiling, not scowling.

I check my watch. My planning accounts for weather delays, but not frostbite.

And so, with a cautious breath, I open the door of his truck, checking the handle first—working properly, no child locks visible. The back window offers a clear view out.

The truck interior smells of coffee and sawdust, with an underlying scent that must belong to him—something woodsy and warm that makes my stomach flutter. Wood pieces and tools fill the space between us, confirming his story. A craftsman’s tools. Real ones, worn with use.

“Sorry about the cold,” he says, gesturing at the rattling heater. “This old girl takes a while to warm up.”

The truck’s cab feels smaller than it looked from outside. Ryder’s broad shoulders take up most of the space, and the warmth radiating from him makes me very aware of every inch between us. I angle myself away, keeping him in my peripheral vision while I study his hands on the wheel—capable, strong hands that could either create beautiful things or cause harm. The kind of hands that feature in both dreams and nightmares.

As he drives, the county road winds through dense woods, each curve hiding whatever might be ahead. There are no streetlights out here, no houses for stretches at a time. Just empty fields and the dark mass of forest pressing in from both sides.

The silence in the truck feels heavy with unspoken questions as snow crunches under the tires. The heater struggles against the cold, barely making a difference. He glances at me occasionally, but doesn’t push for conversation. I’m grateful for that, even as my brother’s warnings echo in my head—lectures about strangers, about trust, about how naive I can be. About how a sweet smile and gentle voice can hide the worst intentions.

I focus on the dark road ahead. My brother’s rage plays through my mind—the last time I mentioned moving out, how his face turned red, how he listed every terrible thing that could happen to me. How he doubled down on his rules the next day.