Ouch.
We turn and find ourselves by the truck.
I open the passenger door for her, my hand on her waist as she steps on the runner.
She hesitates, then slides in, avoiding my gaze.
The drive back to her bakery is quiet except for the steady hum of the heater and the faint strains of a jazzed-up Christmas song on the radio.
When I park in front of The Cookie Hive, she turns to me, that same uncertainty still clouding her expression.
“Thanks for dinner,” she says softly.
“Anytime,” I answer, meaning it.
She gives me one last, searching look, then opens the door.
And as she steps out into the snow, I know exactly what I have to do.
Because if Marigold Santos thinks I’m just some coldhearted CEO with a temporary case of holiday spirit—then it’s up to me to prove her wrong.
Even if it means letting the Badger off the leash to do it.
Chapter 9
Eb
The drive home feels longer than twenty minutes.
Maybe it’s the silence.
Maybe it’s the ghost of her laughter still rattling around in my head.
By the time I pull into the underground garage of my high-rise, the empty echo of my penthouse is already pressing against my chest.
All glass, chrome, and concrete.
Perfect. Polished. Cold.
It’s everything a man like me is supposed to want—and yet, for the first time, it feels like a damn mausoleum.
No lights twinkling in the windows.
No garland.
No pine.
No cookies.
No Marigold.
I throw my keys on the counter and stare at the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the woods behind my house.
The skyline glows like a jewel box, but there’s no warmth in it.
“Yeah,” I mutter to no one. “This place could use some life.”
I crack open my laptop and start searching. I tell myself it’s about the upcoming gala, that maybe a little festive décor will impress clients or whatever—but deep down, I know better.
