Real-life memories? Messy. Unpredictable. Capable of breaking me in ways glass never could.
I’m nervous. Okay — terrified. A knock taps lightly on my door.
“Harper?” Ruby’s muffled voice. “Open up unless you’re naked. In that case, open up slower.”
I groan into my hands. “Come in.”
Ruby sweeps inside like a sparkly holiday tornado, her cheeks flushed from the cold and her coat shedding snowflakes onto my carpet.
“Oooh, good, the panic packing phase. My favorite.” She plants her hands on her hips. “Show me the damage.”
I gesture helplessly at the sad pile of clothing. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You’re preparing for a magical week with a hot, broody mountain man,” she chirps. “It’s not calculus.”
“Ruby.”
“What? Tell me I’m wrong.”
I throw a sweater at her. She dodges it with dancer-like grace.
“I don’t even know what to bring! I have a shop to run. And I don’t know what I look like next to someone like him. I don’t even …”
She holds up a finger. “Stop. Shop first. Then spiraling about men.”
I rub my forehead. “Who’s going to manage Fox & Frost? I can’t leave for a whole week, Ruby.”
“You can,” she says confidently. “Borrow my girl.”
I blink. “Your girl?”
“My weekend manager,” she explains. “Sharice. She needs a few extra hours before the holidays, and she’s incredible. Reliable. Good with people. Very fond of fragile things. I’ll pop in between customers and make sure everything’s running smooth.”
My shoulders sag with relief. “Really?”
“Really,” she says, softer now. “Your mama didn’t raise you to work yourself to the bone. She wanted you to live. And this … this whole thing will be good. You deserve to step out of your comfort zone.”
I twist my fingers together. "But what if I look ridiculous? Next to him? He’s …"
“Hot enough to melt a glacier,” Ruby finishes. “Exactly why you need to pack clothes that make YOU feel good. Not clothes for him.”
I bite my lip. “He’s going to notice how … not tiny I am.”
Ruby narrows her eyes. “You’re a whole woman, Harper Fox. Any man with a functioning brain cell will appreciate that. Especially one who looks like he chops wood for foreplay.”
I groan. “Please stop saying foreplay.”
“Never,” she says. “Now move over, I’m raiding your closet.”
She digs through my clothes with military precision, pulling out pieces I forgot I even owned — a soft cream sweater that fits perfectly, a flannel dress I’ve never worn, a pair of leggings that apparently “make my butt look like a Christmas miracle.” She tosses them into the suitcase.
“Pajamas,” she says next. “Cute ones. But comfortable. You’re sleeping in a honeymoon suite with a man whose shoulders could bench press an elk.”
“Ruby!”
She grins, unrepentant. Finally, she smoothes the zipper closed on the suitcase, then rests a hand over mine.
“You’ll be okay,” she says gently. “He seems … quiet. Kind of tortured. But he looked at you, Harper. Really looked.”
