A Christmas Eve Wish

While it started as a brilliant idea to take a ride on his motorcycle under sunny skies, it quickly became idiotic as clouds rolled in and turned heavy and gray with snow. After finishing the last of the holiday taping, he disappeared on his motorcycle without saying a word to anyone about his schedule or whereabouts. His life had become complicated, and he needed to uncomplicate things. He took off on a ride to freedom from the monstrosity that had become his life. Unfortunately for him, the drive took him headfirst into an oncoming blizzard.

Dressed in jeans, his favorite pair of boots, gloves, a worn padded leather jacket, and a helmet to protect his noggin, Logan McNair definitely wasn't dressed for this type of weather. His balls started to freeze, with toes and fingers chiming in with the tingling sensations of the beginning stages of hypothermia. The pleasant mind-clearing ride turned into a nightmare. Still, he didn't stop until he reached the one hideaway left from his busy life — the small cabin in quiet town of Windy Valley, known for its gorgeous mountain lake and ski slopes. Leaning with the bend that led to the cabin, he stopped the Harley CVO Softail Convertible directly in front of the door, using the headlight to peer through the gloom.

Swinging his leg over, Logan jumped up and down, beating his hands on his legs and chest to get the blood flowing. He pushed the face-shield up and went to the door. Groaning when his numb fingers inside the glove couldn't flick open the specially designed hide-a-key, he pulled off the helmet.

"Holy crap, it's freezing." Shoving the helmet under one arm, he used teeth to tug off the glove only to flick open the small log piece to find it was empty. "What the hell?" Dropping to his knee, Logan brushed at the snow to reveal the hiding spot for his backup key, and lifted the rug. Only to curse when he saw nothing but a dead spider. "Shit!"

Trudging through the snow, he rubbed an arm against the window and peered inside. The inside was in a ramshackle state. The sofa in a different place, debris everywhere, no firewood, dishes piled by the sink, and a layer of dust covered everything.

"Mal! You little piece of shit! I'm going to wring your neck." Logan stomped around, praying there was propane and gas in the containers to give him heat. Perhaps a stack of firewood remained in the back. Reaching the back, he checked both containers to find them dry and twigs in the reserved stack.

"You're so dead, you piece of shit for a brother."

Teeth chattering, Logan moved to the back door and opened his Swiss Army Knife to the blade. Wiggling the blade and the handle, he heard the lock pop and grinned. The door swung open and he was inside. He kicked the door closed.

Okay. Inside. Out of the damn blizzard.

Moving to the front door, he went back out to remove the detachable saddlebags, the secured backpack from the passenger seat, and turned off the headlight. Removing a flashlight from the backpack, he flicked it on and headed back inside.

He closed the door with another kick of his boot, set the bags and helmet on the table, and surveyed the damaged his dense little brother and friends caused to his hideaway from the world. Nearing the sofa, a sniff told him it was ripe with beer, cigarettes, and old sex. He cringed at the thought of an orgy going on in here. One look in the bedroom confirmed the drunken orgy-fest. He slammed the door shut and waved a hand in front of his nose. Then, he nearly puked at the disaster of the bathroom and resealed it with a slam of the door. He placed a hand on the wall until he got the nausea under control.

"Holy crap, that's ripe."

Shaking his head, he ventured into the kitchen, his pride and joy. Only to find all the cupboards empty, the trashcan filled with every imaginable type of fly and maggot, and empty liquor bottles and cans.

"Oh, gross."

Bright lights flickered through the windows and a roar of a snowmobile.

"What the—?" Moving to the backdoor, he opened it in time to see the rider, dressed proper in a full snowsuit, get off with a powerful flashlight in hand.

"Who is that? You're on private property," the rider called out.

"Yeah, my property. Who are you?" Logan shouted back.

"New neighbor on the lake. There was a bunch of crazy partiers here about two weeks ago. Called the cops on them and they fled, but nothing's been done to find them." The man trudged through the increasing snowdrifts, lowering the flashlight when he reached the back patio. He lifted the goggles to reveal lake blue eyes in the dim lights and unwound the thick scarf that protected his lower face and neck.

Logan shook his head and groaned. "That would be my idiotic younger brother, Malcolm, and his so-called friends. And no, he doesn't have the right to be up here. This place belongs only to me." He stepped back to let his neighbor inside to see the disaster of his cabin.

"Shit, what the hell did they do?" The man went through the main area.

"Trashed my place. How, I have no idea and part of me doesn't want to know. All I want to do is wring the little bastard's neck."

"Gas and firewood?"

"Both are out. Same with food. I'm sure the pipes are frozen."

"You can't stay here. An updated forecast came in before I left."

"Shit, what's the damage? I've never seen it this bad up here."

"Blizzard will be overhead for at least four days, definitely through Christmas. Highway patrol shut down the pass out of here about fifteen minutes ago. You can't make it over unless you have a four-wheel drive."

Logan cursed under his breath. "Motorcycle."

The man's brow winged up. "You rode up here on a motorcycle? In a blizzard?"

"It was hot and sunny where I left and I didn't catch the forecast. Last minute decision on my part. I didn't expect a damn blizzard to blow in like this one."

The man chuckled. It turned into full out belly laughter as his hand waved around the cabin. After a desultory look around the place, Logan couldn't help but join in the laughter until his stomach hurt.

When they finished, Logan held out his hand. "Logan McNair."

"Good to meet you, Logan. I'm Joel Oliver." Pulling off the thick gloves, Joel placed his hand in Logan's and shook them.

Though his hands were still cold, Logan felt a delicious tingle of awareness and arousal at the touch. Joel's hand was comfortably calloused, not overbearing in the shake, with just enough pressure. The fingers were well shaped and long. The nails cared for and manicured. A warm woodsy smell accompanied him.

It made Logan give the other man another look-over, giving more attention to the details; snow-damp, disheveled brown hair, which stood up in all directions around the goggles, a handsome face with deep lake blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes, well defined cheekbones, and great lips.

Being such a known star and celebrity, Logan found it hard to find someone who wasn't just looking to be paired with a high priced chef and TV star. He wondered how it would be with Joel.

"Well, Logan, to be flat-out honest. Your bike will not get through the pass."

"Yeah, I figured that part out. It was too late to turn around and return where I came from so I ended up here. I thought I would be fine, but now…" Logan dragged fingers through his auburn hair and looked around the cabin.

"Don't even think about trying to fix this disaster. You don't have the time. This blizzard is too dangerous to mess around with your life. You can't stay here without food, water, or a heat source," Joel said, slapping his gloves against his thigh.

"That bad of a storm?"

"Did I mention it lasting through Christmas? Maybe longer than five days?"

Logan cursed a blue streak. "I guess I better get my ass down to the inn and snag a room."

"I highly doubt that will be a possibility. Not unless you buy out the inn or if you're some kind of celebrity."

Logan raised an eyebrow. Joel didn't know his name or face. "Why not?"

"You're definitely not from the valley, are you?"

"L.A. Is it that obvious?"

"No, no, just a little funny how you said it." Joel held up a hand and shook his head. "It's Christmas. They're booked solid, been so for months. Unless you want to sleep in the lobby on one of the sofas."

Rubbing a hand against his neck, Logan knew he could drop his name and offer his skills in the kitchen for a room, but that would be harsh. He wouldn't do that, especially around the holidays, publicity or not.

"Damn, I'm sorely screwed. I'm going to kill my brother, slowly." Logan growled, kicking the back of the damaged sofa.

"Stay with me."

Logan twisted and stared at Joel. "What?"

"It's easy. Stay at my cabin. I have the room, food, and don't mind the company."

"I'm a complete stranger."

Joel shrugged.

"Could be a killer on the run."

Joel snorted around a grin. "I can handle myself, and I doubt that."

"Worth a shot of warning. I'm only checking your sanity level."

"You're the one who rode up here on a motorcycle in a blizzard and you're checking my sanity level?" Joel's eyebrows lifted in question.

Logan grinned and ran a hand over his neck. "Yeah, ironic piece of shit, isn't it?"