Cruel Winter With You
by Ali Hazelwood
Published by Amazon Original Stories
Book 1 in the Under the Mistletoe Collection
For two former childhood friends, a blustery winter storm stirs some frosty—and scorching—memories in a delightful short story by #1 New York Times bestselling author Ali Hazelwood.
All newly minted pediatrician Jamie Malek wants is to borrow a roasting pan for Christmas dinner. Unfortunately, that requires her to interact with Marc—her best friend’s troublemaking brother, who’s now a tech billionaire. He’s the one who got away. She’s the one who broke his heart. Outside, a howling blizzard. Inside, a crackling fire. Suddenly, being snowbound with the man she never expected to see again might not be such a bad way to spend a winter’s night.
Genre
Triggers
some mentions of trauma from abandonment as a child, loss of a young patient
When a couple of my favorite authors announced they were releasing a holiday romance among with some other authors this year, you know I added that to my calendar.
Which is hilarious if you know me, because I don't put appointments or things I actually NEED to know in my calendar, but book releases, hell yeah.
They released at the perfect time, since I've been feeling pretty blue lately, and am in need of some holiday cheer.
I haven't read an Ali Hazelwood in a while, so I was thrilled when I saw she was one of the authors in this Christmas series. Honestly though, there is no excuse - I have two Ali Hazelwood books on my shelf right now that I haven't read yet, because I keep getting sucked into more recent TBR additions.
Cruel Winter With You was a perfect short story that was just pure Ali Hazelwood. She packed a lot in a short story, yet still kept true to herself and style. Honestly, I could easily stick this story in her own STEMinist novellas and not know a difference. Her characters were likeable, and interesting, and more layered than I expected considering it's only a 73 page story.
Tension? Oh yes.
Spicy? Absolutely.
If you want a short story you can read in one sitting, that is both entertaining and sexy, you can't go wrong with Cruel Winter With You. It's everything you love about Ali Hazelwood condensed.
by purchasing through my Amazon links, the Amazon gods will bless me with a few pennies as thanks
Marc: “‘Yeah’?”
Jamie: “Um, yeah.”
I’m such an accomplished conversationalist. Maybe they’ll give me an award for that.
Jamie: “As in . . . Yeah. Yes. It is me. Jamie.”
Marc: “Unless the new recipe bakes through the ten inches of snow we’re getting tonight, he still shouldn’t have sent you here.”
Jamie: “Honestly, ten inches is not that much.”
A dark eyebrow lifts. I realize why after a beat and instantly turn scarlet.
Jamie: “Oh my God.”
Marc: “Harsh, Jamie.”
Jamie: “That’s not what I meant!”
Marc: “I see.”
Jamie: “No, really, I meant—of snow, ten inches of—”
My phone rings. I pick up immediately, so grateful for the interruption that I could start a cult based around worshipping broadband cellular networks.
Jamie: “Hi, Dad . . . Yup, I made it to the Comptons’. Heading back in a minute . . . I will, yes. Of course.”
I glance at Marc, whose expression can only be described as displeased. Nope, still not a fan of Dad.
Jamie: “Marc, my father wants me to remind you that you should come over tomorrow for Christmas dinner, and . . . Yes, Dad. I promise I’ll do my best to bring him back. No, I won’t be kidnapping him if he refuses, I . . . Okay, sure. I guarantee that if I can’t convince him, I’ll bodily drag him to our place.”
I hang up with an eye roll and set my phone on top of the clothes Marc has piled on the counter. It’ll be a pain to put them back on, but I must admit that it’s nice when my body doesn’t feel like it’s being stabbed with a million little ice picks.
Jamie: “Um, would you like to come over for Christmas dinner?”
I ask, already knowing the answer.
Marc: “No.”
Jamie: “Got it.”
He eyes me expectantly.
Jamie: “What?”
Marc: “I’m waiting for the violent abduction I was promised?”
Jamie: “Oh. Right.”
I glance at his height. The way his compression shirt skims his large biceps. The muscular thighs under his jeans.
Jamie: “Let’s say that I tried—but you bravely overpowered me.”
Marc: “Was it a close call?”
Jamie: “Oh, yeah. I had you in a choke hold for a few seconds there.”
Tabitha wasn’t there, though. She was at home with her grandparents, due to what her mom referred to as “a string of attention-seeking tantrums” but what Tabitha would later reframe as “conscientious objection to the imposition of an unnecessary expansion effort.” She had been informed that a new family member would be forthcoming, and was not inclined to share resources that her young mind perceived as finite, such as toys, Frosted Flakes, and parental love.
Jamie: “Well, he’s growing into his looks. He’s good at sports. He’s charismatic and probably fun to be around—”
Tabitha: “I once saw him kiss a slug with my own two eyes.”
Jamie: “Oh, I was there. Those other girls, though? They did not bear witness to that opinion-making event. We know the real Marc, but who else does?”
Marc: “He doesn’t deserve you. No one does.”
No one.
Jamie: “What about you?”
Marc: “I deserve you least of all. But I want you the most. And I won’t give up. The lengths I’m willing to go to . . . One day, I’ll show you.”
Jamie: “I didn’t think I had it in me to miss someone who programmed my computer to write scrotum every time I typed the word he.”
Marc: “Damn, that was such a good macro. I bet I still have it somewhere.”
Jamie: “What’s this? Community service at the senior center?”
Marc: “You are two years older than me, Jamie.”
Jamie: “Twenty-one and nineteen is a big difference.”
Marc: “Yeah, of course. You could be my mother. Let me take you out anyway.”
Jamie: “I actually have a boyfriend.”
Marc: “Nice. He can fuck off.”
Jamie: “Marc.”
Marc: “No, I’m serious. What’s his name?”
Jamie: “Shane.”
Marc: “Shane can fuck right off.”
I couldn’t help laughing. Hated myself quite a bit for it.
Marc: “Listen, Jamie, date us both. I can deal with that. And then choose the better guy.”
I huffed.
Jamie: “You seem awfully certain that I’d choose you.”
Marc: “Oh, sweetheart. I really am.”
Marc: “The thing is, you’re perfect, Jamie. Absolutely fantastic—always have been. I’ve never been anything but amazed by you. And I don’t think I’m there yet. I want to deserve you.”
Jamie: “Your impression of me . . . I’m not really the person you used to . . .”
Have a crush on, I didn’t say. But he got it. And said,
Marc: “That’s fine, Jamie. Since I’m not the person who spent most of his life in love with you, either.”
My heart drummed against my rib cage. I watched Marc as he stood. Draped his side of the blanket on my knees. Added in a low whisper,
Marc: “And for what it’s worth, you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Marc: “I fucking adore you.”
His forehead dipped to lean against mine.
Marc: “I was in love with you when I was fifteen, and . . . if I’m honest, not much has changed. Just . . . come home with me. Let me take care of you. Let me make you happy. I can tell that you’re lonely, and . . . honestly, so am I. I’ll never not be until we’re together.”
Marc: “Idealized?”
He laughed. His hands came up to my cheeks.
Marc: “Jamie, if anyone is aware of your flaws, it’s me. You have the worst taste in TV shows. When you get angry, you get quiet instead of communicating. You care way too much about pleasing the people around you, especially your dad, who absolutely takes advantage of it. You become sleepy and basically useless past nine thirty at night. You have this odd belief that you cannot tell people how you really feel, or you’ll be saddling them with the weight of the world and they’ll leave you. But it’s okay. I see these things. I’ve always seen them, and I love you because of, not despite, them. Because they’re what makes you you. And I love who you are—I love how thoughtful, and observant, and compassionate you are. I love that you never form an opinion before gathering all the available information. I love that your sense of humor is so dry, I never know if you’re joking. I love how gorgeous you are when you laugh, and I love the way your brain never stops working. I love you.”
Marc: “Do you think I’m not a mess? Do you think I’m not constantly terrified of letting down the people around me? Of not being enough for you? Do you think ‘rich and handsome’ matters when I feel lost and alone all the fucking time except when I’m with you? Come on, Jamie. You know me. That’s the reason you and I have always understood each other so well—how alike we are. You’ve been with me at my lowest and at my shittiest, and always managed to hold me accountable while never judging me. You’re the only one who saw me not just for who I really was but also for what I could be, and . . . I want you. I want everything with you. I want to go to work in the morning knowing that I’ll see you at home every night. I want to be there when you have a terrible day at the hospital, and be the one who reminds you that you are a fantastic doctor. I want to introduce you to every single person I’ve ever met as my wife. I want to travel back to Illinois with you for the holidays. I want the two of us to be on the same team when we play Pictionary with our families, and—”
He pressed a firm kiss against my lips.
Marc: “I want to give you the world, Jamie. Let me. Just let me, please.”
With some maneuvering, he slides his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it. The background is . . .
Jamie: “No.”
Marc: “Yup.”
His lips press against my temple.
Marc: “I put it there the second I took it. And then . . . occasionally, I’d switch it out with something else, but after a few months I’d always go back to it. That’s why I never thought of you as the one who got away, Jamie. You said that’s all you were to me, back on your birthday, but that’s just not true. Because for you to get away, I would have needed to let go of you. And I never wanted that.”
Jamie: “Is this weird?”
I ask him.
Marc lifts his head, red-cheeked and glassy-eyed, almost out of breath.
Marc: “Jamie, believe me. Nothing—nothing—in my life has ever felt less weird than staring at your breasts.”
Jamie: “No, I mean . . . the bed? Doing this in your old room? Are we defiling your wholesome childhood memories or something?”
He mulls it over. Nods. Then says, all business,
Marc: “You’re right. Let’s move to Tabitha’s room.”
Jamie: “Oh. Um . . . I’m not sure that . . .”
Marc: “You’re right, that’s crazy. My parents’ bed is larger.”
I gasp. And when I realize that he’s messing with me, I pinch his side.
Marc: “Jamie,”
he tells me between laughter,
Marc: “pretty unspeakable things have happened in here, and pretty much all of them had something to do with you. The defiling you mentioned has long taken place.”
