“You’ve got this,” I remind myself, climbing the stump-step. “Friendly. Professional. Nonthreatening.”
I raise my hand and knock.
For a long moment, nothing happens.
Then bolts slide. A lock turns. The door swings open.
And I am suddenly face-to-chest with a man who looks like he was grown in a laboratory marked LUMBERJACK, DO NOT OPEN BEFORE CHRISTMAS.
He’s tall. Obviously. Broad shoulders filling out a dark henley that looks like it was tailored by a very appreciative knitwearcompany. His hair is a little too long, dark and rumpled like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. There’s a short beard on his jaw, more deliberate than scruffy. His eyes are a deep, serious brown that flick from my face to my tote to the SUV parked down on the road in a quick, assessing sweep.
He’s not smiling.
He’s also not saying anything.
“Hi,” I chirp, because silence makes me babble and this man is pure, weaponized silence. “You must be Calder.”
His brows tug together the slightest bit. “Who are you?”
Right. Start with that.
“I’m Natalie,” I say. “Natalie Hayes. We’ve been emailing. Your mom hired me to help with Christmas?” I lift the folder like a shield. “I’m the party planner.”
He looks at the folder, then at me again. His expression doesn’t change, exactly, but a subtle shift tells me he remembers the emails. He just doesn’t like what they represent.
“She actually went through with that,” he mutters.
I blink. “With… hiring me?”
“With hiring a stranger off the internet to come up here and ‘fix’ Christmas.” His mouth does a short, humorless curve around the word. “Of course she did.”
He scrubs a hand over his jaw, gaze sliding past me to the road again, like he’s trying to calculate how difficult it’d be to send me back down it.
Panic tries to pinch at my chest. I paste on my friendliest professional smile and lean into the script that’s saved me a hundred times.
“I promise I’m not here to ‘fix’ anything. Think of me as…logistical support. I just want to make things easier for you and your family. It’s your holiday, your traditions, your…vibe. I’m just here to bring the tools and maybe a few extra twinkle lights.”
His gaze returns to me at that. Lingers for one startled second on my face, like the phrase “your vibe” physically pained him.
“You drove all the way up here for twinkle lights,” he says.
“Well, that and the catering contacts, the activity schedule, the custom ornament bar, the—” I stop when his frown deepens. “Yes. Also the lights.”
He exhales slowly, a white puff in the cold air between us. His hand tightens on the door.
“Look,” he says. “I told her it wasn’t necessary. I told her I could handle it. I don’t know what she promised you, but I’m not hosting some…Hallmark movie.”
The way he says it makes it sound like a personal insult. My cheeks heat, the words hitting a spot I didn’t know was sensitive.
I take a steadying breath. “She promised me there’d be a family who wanted to spend Christmas together. That’s all I need.” I nudge my tote up higher on my shoulder. “They’re still coming, right?”
His jaw ticks.
“Yeah,” he admits. “They’re still coming.”
“Then I’m still staying,” I say, injecting more confidence into my tone than I feel. “If it helps, you don’t have to do anything. I’ll handle the logistics. You can pretend I’m not even here.”
His eyes travel slowly from my snow-damp boots to the messy bun threatening to fall out on top of my head. Something flickers there. Not attraction. Probably skepticism.
