I’d made a decision standing under the scalding water, and now, hours later, it felt both inevitable and terrifying.
Tomorrow—no, today—I would go see her.
I would be brave enough to stand in front of the woman I couldn’t stop thinking about and attempt a normal conversation.
Nate would be proud.
I hoped Holly would be patient.
The problemwith making decisions in the middle of the night was that you still had to follow through on them in broad daylight.
I’d showered, changed my clothes twice, and was standing in my kitchen staring at my keys. I picked them up. Put them down, then picked them back up again.
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, forcing my feet toward the door.
During the approximately seven-minute drive from my house to “downtown” Mistletoe Bay, my brain kept telling me to turn around, that Holly would be too busy to speak with me, but I tried my best to shut down those intrusive thoughts.
My therapist had spent months trying to teach me not to catastrophize. “Recognize the thought,” Dr. Chen had said. “Acknowledge it. Then let it pass without judgment.”
Easier said than done when your brain had spent thirty-six years perfecting the art of worst-case scenarios.
She’ll think you’re stalking her.
I had a legitimate reason to be there. I was placing an order.
She’ll be annoyed that you’re interrupting her work.
She ran a business that required customers.
She’ll look at you the way everyone eventually does, with polite disappointment.
Maybe. Or maybe she wouldn’t. There was only one way to find out.
I parked on Main Street, killed the engine, and sat there gripping the steering wheel for a solid thirty seconds. Through the windshield, I could see the bookshop, and above it, a window with warm light spilling out.
I pushed open the door and got out of my SUV before I could talk myself out of it.
Her workshop was accessible via a narrow exterior staircase that looked like it had been added to the building as an afterthought sometime in the seventies—whether that was the 1870s or the 1970s was up for debate. The steps were wooden, worn smooth, and creaked ominously under my weight.
At the top, a door with peeling blue paint had a handwritten sign taped to it that readBlossom & Vine. Knock loudly. I’m probably listening to music!
Through the door, I could hear Taylor Swift singing about it being the damn season.
My hand hovered in the air.
This was it. The moment where I either knocked or I turned around and went back to being the reclusive billionaire on Candlewick Lane everyone whispered about.
I thought about our compatibility score.
I thought about Nate telling me to just be myself.
I thought about Holly’s chuckle when she kidded me about abusing her power to install a giant Christmas tree in my foyer.
I thought about the way her cheeks had turned pink when I’d inadvertently made a sex joke.
I thought about the way her eyes had sparkled when she talked about how much she loved this town.
What choice did I have? I knocked.
