He’s getting in my head. Darn it! That’s what he meant to do.
I gather my things, preparing to leave the warmth and sparkle of the ballroom for the cold December night outside; I can’t quite shake the image of those green eyes and that wink from my mind.
Logan Brown might be handsome, but he’s also standing between me and that grand prize. And nothing—not his charming smile, not his annoyingly perfect sweater, and certainly not the way my heart seems to stutter when he’s near—is going to distract me from my goal.
Aaand there’s Logan.
I can’t escape the man. His tall figure is easily visible as he strides purposefully toward the fire station. Is he headed for a shift? What, exactly, do firefighters do when there’s not a fire? The ease with which he carries himself is attractive.
No, it’s not, I tell myself. And if it is, it’s because I want some of that swagger. Not some of Logan’s swagger; I want my own. I rub my forehead. I’m thinking in circles.
The competition has officially begun.
Let the games begin.
Five
BAILEY
The doors to Designer’s Haven automatically whoosh open, drawing me into the decorators’ superstore as I approach. A wave of cinnamon and plastic washes over me, mingling with the cardboard scent of newly unboxed ornaments. Normally, the dazzling array of lights and glittering decorations would set my creative mind alight. Today, however, the festive wonderland before me feels more like a gauntlet to be run.
I adjust the strap of my messenger bag, squaring my shoulders as I survey the aisles. Shoppers weave between towering displays of fake trees and Red Rider sleds, their excited chatter filling the air. A child squeals with delight as an animatronic Santa waves from a nearby shelf. The sheer variety of items is overwhelming—from classic glass baubles to quirky pop culture-inspired decorations. I’m drawn to the Elvis figurine. He’s wearing a red, bell-bottom jumpsuit with a picture of Santa across the back.
I kind of love him.
I leave him there for another project. My theme is notRockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. I pat his head. “Maybe next year, E.”
I make my way down the first aisle, running my hand along a garland of soft, faux pine needles. The deep green would make an excellent base for my design. I’m envisioning something modern, a departure from the traditional red and green. Maybe silver and blue, with unexpected pops of coral...
“Excuse me,” a deep voice interrupts my musings. “Could you pass me that gold star topper?”
I turn, ready to oblige, when I find myself face-to-face with Logan Brown. My stomach flips as my eyes run up his jean-clad legs that are longer than any man should be allowed to have, his trim middle that’s probably a six-pack of perfection because he’s a firefighter for the love of holy. I skim across his chest, which in no way resembles a fluffy down pillow, and end on his too-handsome-for-his-own-good face.
“Sure,” I croak as I reach for the star. Our fingers brush as I hand it to him, and I quickly pull away. “Going for the classic look, I see.”
Logan’s brow furrows slightly at my tone, but he maintains a polite smile. “There’s a reason classics are classic,” he says. “They stand the test of time.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Or they’re just boring and predictable,” I mutter, turning back to the garlands. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Okay, when I get home, I’m going to find my filter and reinstall it.
“I’m sorry. What was that?” Logan asks, his voice genuinely curious rather than challenging.
I open my mouth, then close it again, unsure how to respond. “Nothing,” I mumble. “It’s not worth repeating.”
Logan gives me a small nod and walks away, gold star in hand. I glare at his retreating back, my cheeks burning with embarrassment at my own behavior.
Taking a deep breath, I force myself to refocus on the task at hand. I grab a cart and begin filling it with supplies—ribbons in shades of silver and ice blue, delicate glass icicles, and strings of warm white lights.
As I round the corner into the next aisle, I nearly collide with another shopper. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I exclaim, steadying my cart.
“No harm done,” a familiar voice replies. I look up to see Mrs. Pennington, my downstairs neighbor, and the owner of the Pampered Pooch Pantry, smiling warmly at me. Her rosy cheeks are even more flushed than usual, likely from the store’s toasty temperature.
“Mrs. Pennington! I didn’t expect to see you here,” I say, genuinely pleased to run into a friendly face.
She chuckles, the sound as warm and comforting as freshly baked cookies—or dog treats as the case may be. Dogs can eat white chocolate, you know. “I’m picking up a few things to spruce up the shop window. Biscuit insisted we needed new stockings this year.”
I can’t help but smile. “I’m sure Biscuit has excellent taste.”
Mrs. Pennington’s eyes twinkle as she glances at my cart. “My, that’s quite the collection you’ve got there.”
