San Francisco. A fresh start. A high-rise apartment overlooking the bay. No gingerbread castles. No chaotic bakeries smelling of cinnamon and vanilla. No Holly James with her defiant spark and her terrifying warmth.
The thought of seeing her tonight, under the twinkling lights, surrounded by carols and crowds… it feels like skating onto thin ice. Reckless. Dangerous.
Thompson’s call was a cold slap. A brutal reminder of the real game. Contracts. Trades. Changes.
My life isn’t about holiday magic or accidental touches that feel like live wires. It’s about performance. Leverage. Protecting Tabby’s future in the only way I know how: through the cold, hard currency of my career.
I set the coffee mug down on the counter with a sharpclink. The sound echoes in the too-quiet space. The absurdly cheerful gingerbread castle sits across the room. I didn’t want to bring it with us, but Tabby insisted.
Going tonight isn’t just stepping into a holiday free-for-all. It’s stepping onto a playing field I can’t control.
Chapter 12
Holly
The cold air nips at my cheeks, but it’s the warmth bubbling inside me that has me practically buzzing as I adjust the giant insulated dispenser of hot cocoa.
The park is a sea of bundled-up bodies, wool hats, and mittened hands clutching paper cups. Lights strung through the bare branches of the oak trees overhead cast a soft, magical glow.
The giant spruce I spent hours wrestling lights onto stands sentinel-like at the center, waiting for its moment. Carols drift from the small speaker system I set up near the base, mingling with the excited chatter and laughter of my neighbors.
It’s perfect. Chaotic, bustling, alive – everything I love about this time of year.
Everything, except the butterflies currently staging a full-scale revolt in my stomach.
He said he’d be here.
I scan the edges of the crowd again, past Mrs. Gable’s familiar purple puffer jacket, past Mr. Henderson trying to corral his twin terriers, past clusters of teenagers laughing under the lights. No sign of a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette or a small, pink-coated figure bouncing beside it.
“Holly, honey, this cocoa is divine!” Mrs. Rossi beams, holding up her cup. “Just the right amount of peppermint. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Rossi!” I force a bright smile, topping off her cup. “Glad you like it. Extra marshmallows?”
“Always!” She pats my arm. “You’re an angel for putting this all together again. Makes the neighborhood feel like home.”
Her words warm me, a counterpoint to the nervous energy fizzing under my skin. This is why I do it. The shared smiles, the bundled-up camaraderie, the collective gasp when the tree finally lights up. It’s community. It’s connection. It’s… magic.
Or it’s supposed to be. Right now, my magic feels tangled up in the prospect of seeing a certain grumpy hockey player.
“Holly! Need a refill over here!” Charlie waves from the other end of the long table we’ve set up, her cheeks rosy from the cold and exertion. She’s been a whirlwind, keeping the cocoa flowing and the marshmallow mountain replenished.
Her knowing glance darts past me, scanning the same crowd I’ve been obsessively checking.Looking for the Grumpy One?her raised eyebrow seems to say.
I knew I shouldn’t have told her he was coming and I try to ignore her silent commentary. Instead, I grab another jug of the cocoa. The rich, chocolatey scent is usually comforting, but tonight it just mixes with the crisp pine smell from the wreaths decorating the park benches and the underlying bite of winter air, creating a heady cocktail that does nothing to settle my nerves.
He agreed. He said yes.But the memory of Denton’s clipped tone, his stiff posture as he’d agreed to this festive invasion of his carefully controlled world… it didn’t exactly scream enthusiasm.
What if he changed his mind? What if the thought of crowds and carols and forced cheer kept him from showing up? What if Tabby’s pleas weren’t enough?
I pour cocoa for the Andersons, my hands remarkably steady despite the internal wobble.Stop it, Holly. Just think about something else.
“Wow, Holly, this is amazing!” Ben Carter, who runs the used bookstore down the street, leans over the table, helping himself to a handful of candy canes for his kids. “The lights look incredible this year. You really went all out.”
“Thanks, Ben! Trying to make it special.” My gaze drifts past him for a moment when I think I spot Denton and Tabby.
“Looking for someone?” he asks, following my line of sight.
“Just… keeping an eye on the crowd flow,” I deflect quickly, feeling heat creep up my neck.
