“Shit, shit, shit.”
I abandon the eyeliner and rush to my closet, staring at the pathetic selection of clothes like something perfect will magically appear.
I groan and toss my phone on the bed. Five minutes now. I yank on a pair of skinny jeans—the dark wash ones that make my ass look good—and grab an oversized green sweater from the closet. It’s soft, comfortable, and if everything goes to shit, I can hide in it.
Why I ever agreed to this, I have no idea… I hate dating.
A last glance in the mirror… Good enough. Except for the unruly mass of shoulder-length blonde curls that refuse to do anything but frizz in the dry air.
I secure it in a ponytail and stare at myself in the mirror. Jake has seen me in all the good and bad ways. There’s no point in pretending to be something I’m not.
This is me. Take it or leave it.
My phone buzzes again, and I grab it expecting another message from Baby, but it’s Jake.
Jake:Here.
My stomach does a flip. I grab my coat, shove my phone in my pocket, and head for the door. But halfway there, a small cramp makes me pause. It’s low in my belly, just a twinge, and I write it off as nerves.
I take a breath and open the door.
Jake’s hand is raised, poised to knock. He’s wearing dark jeans, boots, and a heavy jacket that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. His light brown hair is slightly messy, like he ran his hands through it one too many times, and when he sees me, that devastating smile spreads across his face.
“Hey, Wills.”
“Hey.” I lock the door behind me, very aware of how his eyes track my movement. “So are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He opens the passenger door for me, and I catch a whiff of his scent—chocolate and spice. “Trust me.”
“You keep saying that.”
“So what’s one more time?” He winks and closes the door once I’m settled.
The drive into town is easy, comfortable. Jake keeps up a steady stream of conversation about nothing and everything—the ranch, Charlie’s trip to Tennessee, some story about Beau getting kicked by a particularly ornery bull last year. I relax into my seat, watching the familiar landscape roll by, and try to ignore the way my body heats every time Jake’s hand moves on the gearshift.
When we pull into downtown, I’m confused. “Jake, what?—”
“Just wait.”
He parks, and that’s when I see it—the outdoor ice rink set up in the town square. There are food booths lining the perimeter, strings of Christmas lights everywhere, and people bundled up in coats and scarves, skating in lazy circles on the ice.
“Ice skating?” I look down at my outfit—jeans and an oversized sweater—and feel suddenly underdressed.
Jake catches the look. “You’re fine. You look perfect.”
I reach for my coat, silently thanking myself for remembering it at the last minute. It’s not exactly glamorous—just the one I wear to work—but at least I won’t freeze to death.
The outdoor rink is beautiful: white lights strung overhead, a small stand selling hot cocoa and cider, Christmas music playing from speakers hidden somewhere in the decorations. The whole square is transformed into a winter wonderland, and despite my nerves, I feel something warm unfold in my chest.
“The town goes crazy for the holidays,” Jake says, guiding me toward one of the food booths. “This is just the start. Wait until you see the market next week.”
“I remember.” I have vague memories of childhood Christmases, back when things were simpler. Before my father became unbearable. Before I learned that wanting things only led to disappointment.
Jake buys us hot apple cider, and we walk through the booths, looking at handmade crafts and decorations. Everything smells like cinnamon and pine, and the cold air is momentarily interrupted by warm pockets as we weave around outdoor heaters set up along the pedestrian path. The cold wind still bites at my cheeks in a way that feels more invigorating than uncomfortable.
“So when did you officially join Pack McCrae?” I ask as we walk through the vendor stalls, the Christmas lights casting everything in a warm glow.
Jake’s hand finds mine, his fingers threading through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “About six years ago. Right after—” He pauses. “Right after I left.”
