Maybe I should have put it in a bun.
Then there was Brody.
I stared at my dreamboat small-town hunk. He saw me watching him, and he winked at me. He was dressed head to toe in flannel—a flannel hat, flannel shirt, and flannel pants.
My skin started to feel a little itchy…
“For all your talk about people with terrible taste,” Matt said in my ear, his deep voice making my stomach do that flip-flopping thing again, “you sure seem fixated on a certain woodchopper.”
I refused to give Matt the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me. I stared stoically forward, gaze fixed on Brody.
He had taken a little piece of wood out of his pocket and was whittling it. Belle ran over to yell at him to stop.
“He really does have that small-town woodsman shtick down pat, doesn’t he?” Matt continued. “I bet he buys that wood at the Costco a few towns over, sells it at a markup, and pretends it’s artisanal.”
I gritted my teeth.
“He goes out in the woods to cut it down himself. He has an axe that was his grandfather’s,” I said, sure that that was what a Hallmark holiday romance hero would do.
“Hm. On whose land? Surely he doesn’t own acres of forest. I bet he never takes that flannel off,” Matt continued. “He probably showers in it.”
My skin was vibrating from being too close to him.
“He has a cabin he built with his own two hands, and he drives an antique truck.”
“And that’s how I know you’re not a businesswoman because you don’t know the first thing about logistics.”
I could hear the smirk in his voice. “There’s no way Brody’s making a living hauling firewood.” Matt dropped his voice to a whisper because Anastasia had started the show.
“Not to mention: How does he have a tan? It’s been cold and overcast for the past three months.”
“He’s a rugged outdoorsman, not a spoiled billionaire,” I hissed out of the side of my mouth.
Matt stepped to the other side of me to whisper in my other ear.
“I bet it’s a spray tan.” The derision in his voice was obvious.
“Guess I’ll have to undress Brody and find out,” I quipped.
The annoyance wafted off Matt. I turned to meet his gaze then said, “You’re just jealous because his dick is probably two feet long.”
Matt paused for a moment. His eyes narrowed.
“Let me get this straight: The same person who opened a failing Christmas tree ornament shop wants to get fucked by a two-foot dick? You’re just a badly wrapped Christmas package of terrible ideas.”
“Both of those are great ideas,” I hissed at him.
His mouth quirked, and he looked down at me. “Are you a virgin?”
“What the—no!” I said, kicking his shin. He grabbed my arm, jerking me roughly to him before I could kick him again.
“That’s a rude question.”
“It’s a pertinent question,” he replied. “Because only a woman who had never had sex would think being fucked by a two-foot dick was going to be anything other than very painful.”
“You’re just some man,” I told him. “You don’t know anything about women’s anatomy.”
“I was raised by an older sister who made damn sure I was well educated about women and that I respected them.”
