I sprinted out of the woods toward the dog.
19
Holly
My snow pictures were going to be amazing. I had on my red stilettos with the metal heels, and I was feeling like a supermodel perched up on the edge of the fountain. I was about to do an over-the-shoulder wink when I saw a man barreling toward me.
I screamed, and since I wasn't all that coordinated unless I was making a seven-tiered cake, the shock immediately sent me off balance. My heels slipped on the icy stone.
The man skidded then grabbed me before I could fall.
“Police! Help! Stranger danger!” I swung at his face with my fists, though my gloved hands couldn’t do that much damage.
“I'm not a stranger,” a familiar deep voice said irritably.
“Oh, bedroom stalker, it's you!”
“I wasn't stalking you. It was my house and my bedroom,” he said, setting me down. “Apologies for scaring you. I was trying to save you from the big bad wolf.”
“Huh?” I looked down. Rudolph pounced on my furry hat, which had been knocked into the snow.
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, thank you, kind savior. Whatever would I have done without you to protect me?”
“He could have frightened you,” Owen insisted mulishly. “You could have had a concussion.”
“Instead, I had a huge man run at me. That is way less frightening than a cute puppy.”
Owen's mouth was a thin, hard line. “What are you even doing out here?”
“Taking pictures. Follow me on Instagram at Taste My Muffin!” I said, flashing a peace sign.
The frown on Owen's face deepened.
“If you wondering if it is some sort of blatant sexual innuendo,” I chattered on, still a little more shaken than I cared to admit, “yes, yes it is.”
“I’m surprised you didn't name it Tasting Her Christmas Cookies.”
“Look at you making a joke! And here I thought someone who hated Christmas and was the CEO of a data analytics firm was going to be stiff and überunimaginative.”
“It takes imagination to do computer programming,” he said, offended.
“I know it does! I'm teasing,” I said, stealing my hat back from Rudolph. “I follow Grant Holbrook on Instagram. His company does computer programming–type stuff.”
Owen snarled, “No they don't. It's all lightweight user interfaces.”
“Okay, Mr. Gatekeeper. Do I detect some snobbery?” I teased.
He scowled.
“Don't take it personally. A good-looking man and a corgi? You can't buy publicity better than that!” I said, collapsing my tripod.
Owen sighed. “I wish I could. I need to—well, never mind. It's not any of your concern.”
“You want to win theTechBizcompetition?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“How did you know?”
“Instagram. The hashtag is in every post on the Holbrooks’ feed,” I explained.
