Soot-smudged, likely from an early morning call, with his broad shoulders wrapped in his department-issued navy jacket. His dark brown hair is a little messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. And that expression? It’s the picture of calm, steady and protective—like he could single-handedly lift this entire building if it started to crumble.
He’s arguably Mistletoe Bay’s most sought-after bachelor.
Which would be fine—normal, even—if he didn’t also walk in smelling like cedarwood, winter air, and smoke. My greatest weakness.
He gives the room a sweep with those warm and welcoming eyes… and then they land on me.
“Morning, Em,” he says, voice low and gravelly from smoke and too little sleep.
My heart absolutely betrays me.
“Hey, Hayes,” I reply, aiming for casual and landing somewhere between breathless and suspiciously flustered.
Evie mutters, “Here we go,” under her breath as she pivots to the espresso machine, pretending not to eavesdrop while 100% doing exactly that.
Hayes steps up to the counter, tugging off his gloves. His knuckles are scraped—nothing major, just evidence of another night of running into danger.
“You okay?” I ask, softer than I mean to.
He pauses, surprised. “Yeah. Just another day on the job. Nothing serious.”
The way he looks at me—as if that single question warmed something in him—makes my stomach flip.
“What can I get you?” I ask, giving up all hope of returning to the Christmas tree tarts now.
He studies me for a beat too long before clearing his throat. “The usual. And…” His mouth tips into a lopsided smile that could melt the North Pole. “…one of those Christmas tree tarts you’re making.”
I blink. “You don’t even know what’s in them.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It might.” I tease. “What if I put raisins in it?”
“You didn’t.”
“I could have.”
Hayes hates raisins. Has since he nearly choked on one in the first grade. I saved him with a good ol’ hard pat on the back.
“But you didn’t,” he says again with quiet certainty—like he knows me better than I know myself.
I hate that my pulse does a little firework spin at that.
Evie passes by and stage-whispers, “Just marry him already.”
I toss a dish towel at her, horrified. Hayes laughs—low and warm—and I swear my something sweet burns inside me, all the way to my core.
“Ignore her,” I mutter.
Hayes and I arejustfriends. There was a time when I thought we werealmostheaded into relationship territory, but it didn’t work out. I’m mostly okay with that. At least that’s what I try to tell myself every time I get those silly flutters in my chest.
“Hard to,” he says, eyes still on me. “But I’ll try.”
I turn to grabhismug from the shelf, hoping he can’t see the pink creeping up my neck. I pour his usual—strong, slightly sweetened coffee with a splash of vanilla—and slide it over to him.
He wraps his hands around the mug, and that’s when I notice that he’s still not looking away. Not even a little.
“What?” I ask, trying not to fidget.
