I groaned and turned up the volume. Bing Crosby crooned about white Christmases while the highway disappeared under a blanket of white.
The truth was—and I'd never admit this to anyone, barely admitted it to myself—I'd devoured every romance novel in the library's collection. Twice. I'd also discovered the spicy ones I'd found when I helped Mee-Maw organize her bedroom lastspring, thinking she didn't know I'd noticed them. I had a worn copy ofThe Hating Gamethat I'd read so many times the spine was cracked, and I'd stayed up late scrolling through book forums, reading about characters who got their happy endings.
But I'd never actually experienced any of the steamy romance those books promised. Never had someone look at me with desire, never been kissed like I mattered. I was too shy, too self-conscious about my curves to know how to act around men who might actually want me.
Twenty-six and still a virgin. Not for lack of wanting, but because the dating pool in Mistletoe Ridge was nonexistent. Every setup from well-meaning church ladies, including that mortifying dinner with Mrs. Henderson's grandson visiting from Dallas, ended the same way—guys treating me like a buddy, a pal, someone to talk to about their problems but never someone they actually wanted. Apparently the curvy girl in hand-knitted sweaters who quoted Dr. Seuss couldn't possibly be someone they desired.
Working at Lasso & Lace had opened my eyes to possibilities. Things I'd only read about in those romance novels. Things that made me blush when I stocked shelves but also left me curious—achingly curious—about what it would be like to try them with someone who looked at me like I was worth wanting.
The highway stretched empty ahead. At this hour, with the weather turning nasty, most people were already home. Smart people who didn't have second jobs requiring them to dress like a Christmas elf in an adult boutique.
I pulled into the parking lot behind Lasso & Lace at five forty-eight and grabbed Vixen's carrier. My shift started at six, which usually gave me time to change and prep. My fingers had gone numb despite gloves. Ice crystals stuck to my eyelashes.
The back entrance key stuck in the lock like it always did when the temperature dropped. Had to jiggle it twice before the doorfinally gave way. Inside, I flipped on the lights and the shop transformed. Tasteful holiday decorations everywhere—Angela had insisted on "festive but sexy." Red and gold garland draped the displays. Twinkling white lights framed the front windows. A modest tree in the corner, decorated with ornaments that would make Santa blush. Tiny handcuffs. Miniature massage oil bottles. A glittery ornament shaped like something I tried very hard not to think about.
"Okay, Vixen." I set her carrier on the counter and unlatched the door. She stepped out with the dignity of royalty, surveying her temporary domain. "Wish me luck."
She gave me another slow blink, then began grooming her shoulder with exaggerated care. If she could talk, she'd probably tell me to get it together.
In the back room, I stripped off my cardigan and long skirt, folded them carefully on the chair Angela kept there, and stared at the "uniform" hanging on the hook. Angela had instituted the elf costume policy last week—"festive attire for the final shopping days before Christmas," she'd called it. Eight months, and the embarrassment never faded. If anything, it got worse.
Deep breath. You need this job. Eyes on the prize—library school, career, future.
I pulled on the red velvet elf costume with its strategic cutouts showing more cleavage than I'd ever displayed in my entire life. The skirt barely covered anything, stopping at a length that sent me tugging it lower every few seconds. Green and white striped tights that at least provided some coverage. A jingle bell hat that announced every movement I made.
My reflection in the small mirror looked like a stranger. Someone bolder than I usually felt. I pulled out the knitting needles holding my bun in place, letting my honey-highlighted hair tumble down past my shoulders in waves. At least thatlooked better—softer, less "librarian who forgot to brush her hair."
My glasses had fogged when I first walked in from the cold outside, but now they were clear again. I tried adjusting the costume's neckline. The deep V gaped whenever I leaned forward. Who had Angela ordered these costumes from—Sexy Elves R Us?
For one wild, completely inappropriate second, I let myself imagine Shep seeing me like this. Walking through that door and finding me in this costume instead of my usual armor of cardigans and sensible skirts. Would his eyes go dark? Would that slow smile spread across his face? Would he look at me the way heroes in romance novels looked at heroines—like they wanted to devour them?
Stop it. Stop it right now.
I grabbed my phone from my bag. Three texts from Angela, each one more enthusiastic than the last.
Don't forget the inventory tonight! New Cowboy Collection needs to be logged ASAP.
And check the holiday display—make sure everything's stocked for last-minute shoppers!
You're a doll! ??
I stared at the screen. Inventory. On December 23rd, the night before Christmas Eve, during a snowstorm. Of course.
The Cowboy Collection was Angela's newest pride and joy—a whole display of Western-themed items that sent me looking for the nearest exit every time I walked past it. Lasso-themed products. Chaps that were definitely not for riding horses. Things with spurs that had absolutely nothing to do with ranch work.
I typed back:On it.
Then:Snow's getting bad. Might need to close early?
Her response came immediately:Do the inventory first! You'll be fine ?? Roads should be clear by the time you're done.
Right. Fine. Totally fine.
Each step back to the main floor made the bell on my hat chime. The heels Angela insisted we wear made me wobble. I'd only worn heels three times in my life—prom, Mee-Maw's friend's wedding, and that disastrous blind date where I'd twisted my ankle in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. I paused at the threshold to adjust the costume's neckline and push my glasses into place, then stepped out onto the sales floor.
The shop was quiet except for Christmas music playing softly—some instrumental version of "Baby It's Cold Outside" that felt a little too on the nose given the weather.
I grabbed the inventory checklist from behind the counter, along with the pen Angela kept on a chain because apparently people stole pens from sex shops. The massage oil display needed to be checked first, then—
