I step closer, noting how the soft light from his Christmas tree makes his eyes look warmer, less haunted. “You, Saint Nicholas, are something I’m not ready to lose.”
Reed reaches for me then, his hands settling on my waist with the careful reverence of someone handling something precious.
My heart does something acrobatic in my chest. “I love you,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere, even if your trees never make you a dime.”
When he kisses me, he tastes like eggnog and hope.
27
Reed
Bramblewood Manor looks, to quote my girlfriend, “festive as fuck.”
Ice sculptures gleam under chandeliers, and my trees—infinitely more elegant than they did in my greenhouse—serve as centerpieces throughout the main hall. Through the tall glass doors, I can see Eliza’s cleared garden strung with hundreds of tiny white lights, and beyond that, an actual ice rink where professional dancers glide in perfect synchronization.
I adjust my jacket for the hundredth time, scanning the crowd of Pittsburgh’s finest in their holiday best. Everyone appears magazine-ready, coiffed to the nines, and I’m trying not to think about how I don’t belong here any more than I did at my father’s presentation.
Where the hell is Eliza?
She insisted on meeting me here instead of letting me pick her up—something about last-minute animal emergencies and making sure Eden and Nate were settled at her place to keep Emma from “accidentally” releasing the goats. I check my phone again; she’s only ten minutes late, but it feels like an hour.
If I’m honest, meeting her here gives me some much-needed time to cool down. I called my father before I left and told him I hoped I wouldn’t see him tonight at the gala. He, of course, scoffed at the suggestion he would be here. And why should he, with nothing in it for him? I made sure he heard me assert I would not be starting work at the family firm, and he was in the middle of telling me how I’d regret that when I hung up the phone.
Then I drove to this ball where I have nothing to lose, on the edge of ruin. And I’m not sorry, because I’m meeting someone here who lights me up from the inside.
Then I see her.
Eliza Storm walks through the entrance wearing a black velvet pantsuit that makes every other woman in the room look underdressed. The jacket is cut perfectly, hugging her curves, and there’s something about the way the lapels frame her chest that makes my mouth go dry. Her hair, usually in a practical ponytail, falls in soft waves around her shoulders, and someone—probably Eva—has done something magical with makeup that makes her eyes look enormous.
But it’s the confidence in her stride that really gets me. She moves through this crowd of society people like she owns the place, scanning the room until her gaze lands on me.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, weaving through conversations and champagne glasses to reach her. “You’re gorgeous.”
“You clean up pretty well yourself,” she says, but I can see a hint of nervousness beneath her polished frosting.
“You look…” I search for words that aren’t completely inappropriate for public consumption. “Absolutely stunning.”
I take her hand and bring it to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles while maintaining eye contact. “I am the luckiest man in this room.”
Her smile transforms from nervous to radiant. “Smooth, Saint Nicholas.”
“Come on,” I say, offering her my arm. “Let me introduce you to some people as my amazing girlfriend, the urban goatherd.”
“You’re really going to lead with the goats?”
“I’m leading with amazing. And girlfriend.”
For the next hour, I do exactly that. Every conversation, every introduction, I make sure people know Eliza runs a successful sustainable landscaping business, that she’s brilliant and fearless and the reason half this room is enjoying the stunning outdoor views tonight. Of course, I emphasize she’s mine. I keep an arm around her shoulders. I let my thumb caress the velvet material. I relax into my place at her side like I never intend to leave.
And I don’t.
Eliza, to my continued amazement, holds her own with every single person we meet. She talks shop with environmental lawyers, explains invasive species management to city planners, and somehow makes goat husbandry sound fascinating.
“Reed! Eliza!” Mandy Warnick appears at my elbow, looking genuinely pleased to see us both. “You two look wonderful.”
“Mandy,” I say, surprised by her warm tone. “Thank you again for including my trees in the decorations. They look incredible.”
“They’re the hit of the evening. Everyone’s asking about them.” She gestures to a group of stern-looking men in expensive suits standing near the refreshment table. “In fact, I was just talking to some guests who might be interested.”
