CHAPTER1
93 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS
Poppy
I admireanyplace that will unironically lean into Christmas in September. Perhaps to honor its name, the owners of Holly Hill Inn do not believe in harvest festivals or autumn decor. Nope, they go straight from summer to mantels filled with garland, with nary a pumpkin in between. It makes my Christmas-loving heart happy, and I revel in any opportunity to stay here in the historic mansion.
I stab the elevator button a few more times, then decide the elevator is as antique as the inn itself, which does not instill confidence. But it’s better than taking the stairs to the fifth floor in my froth-filled nightmare of a dress and torture-chamber heels. I curse my sister for suggesting a 1980s prom-themed bachelorette party. “The tackier, the better” was her instruction, so I spent the entire night dressed like an extra in a teen-scream horror flick, corralling drunk women, singing bad karaoke, and itching all over from layers of tulle.
Normally, I’m the queen of theme and costume parties. I’m wicked with a glue gun and feather boa. I even own a Bedazzler. But being dumped by my fiancé two months ago is causing my maid-of-honor duties for my sister’s wedding to lose their luster. Even singing “Dancing Queen” couldn’t perk me up, and ABBA is my jam. My heart hurts watching my sister, who never wanted to be tied down, prepare for the wedding I’d been dreaming of my whole life. I’m happy for her. But sad for me. All I want is to go back to my hotel room, cry myself to sleep, and then wake up fresh for the wedding tomorrow.
I stab the button again in rhythmic bursts.
“That won’t make the elevator come any faster,” a man says behind me.
Normally, being snarky is way outside of my people-pleasing comfort zone, but I turn to say something, and all thoughts fly out of my head.
I can only see the man before me. A man with the eyes, face, and body of a Norse god. My gaze tilts up, up, up to his granite jaw, made softer by stubble, to his pale blue eyes and sexy smirk. His long blond hair is caught in a man bun. Viking looks good on him.
My heart flips and tumbles to my toes.
His thick, corded arms hold a sleeping child snuggled against his broad chest. I don’t blame the small girl. That chest looks as if it could protect all manner of children, women, and even a forest animal or two.
And they have, I realize with shock—at least on the big screen. I know those eyes, face, and chest. They belong to Ronan Masters, Hollywood’s most famous action star. And here he is, at Holly Hill, in a small lake town in upstate New York.
My mouth opens. But nothing comes out.
Ronan doesn’t seem surprised by my expression. He probably stuns women to silence daily. Hourly.
A ding sounds. “Elevator’s here,” he prompts me. “Are you sure that dress will fit?”
“Oh. Um. Yes.” That’s me—all quick wit and clever rejoinders. I stumble into the elevator, tripping on my ridiculous dress.
He shifts the blond-haired angel in his arms and ambles in behind me. It’s remarkable that someone as large as him can amble.
Once in the elevator, he brushes past me to press the button for the fifth floor, sending shivers of tingling awareness through my body.
I sneak a glance, trying to be cool, but knowing he sees me checking him out. He’s larger-than-life, just like the action hero he plays in the movies, complete with a rescued child. Maybe he saved her from a burning building or a terrorist cell. At least in my imagination.
My soft sigh attracts his attention. His icy eyes squint in silent reproach, reminding me I shouldn’t ogle a complete stranger. But it’s not my fault he’s so ogle-able.
I sigh again.
He looks away, staring at a fixed spot on the doors. I imagine he’s wishing himself anywhere but in here with me.
He shifts.
The elevator groans and then comes to a creaking, croaking, crashing stop. I fall back against the rear wall of the elevator with a thud, and my wide eyes meet the intense gaze of Ronan Masters, action star.
A grinding sound comes from above us.
“Oh shit,” I whisper before the floor falls out from under me. As quickly as the descent starts, it stops with the sick scraping of metal on metal.
When conscious thought resumes, I realize I’m clinging to Ronan Masters like a limpet. I let go of his solid muscles, resisting the urge to give them a farewell pat.
“Sorry. My bad.”
There’s that eyebrow of his rising again.
