“Only one of those is even remotely close.”
“I knew you’d come to your senses about pears.”
“Never. But it might be similar to a filthy Advent calendar,” he says, the corner of his lips quirked up. “Get your boots and a coat. Maybe even gloves.”
Oh.Oh, yes.“So it’s time to go outdoors,” I say, like the words taste good on my tongue. Because they do.
I comply, carrying my boots to the back door, then I slide them on and button my coat.
Once outside, I draw a big inhale of cool, fresh air,then take a few tentative steps across the soft blanket of snow on the deck. When I reach the edge, I stop.
A sign made from white cardboard hangs across two trees in the yard, reading in black marker:ISLA’S CHRISTMAS TREE FARM
My heart catches. I turn to him in slow motion. “Rowan,” I say, his name full of intrigue.
“I know you like Christmas tree farms,” he says, then gestures to the yard filled with trees. “So I made one just for us.”
For us. Those words echo, hard and lovely in my chest. Full of promise and…passion.
I look around at the spruces and pines, some strung with lights. And—wait—do those trees have paper tags? Like they’re for sale. He really went all out.For me.
There’s also a makeshift table made of three wood planks. On it are two cups of hot cocoa.
Isthatwhat he was doing in the kitchen? Making a hot cocoa stand?
Sugar plum fairies are definitely doing a dance in my chest.
“This is…incredible,” I say, though the words hardly feel like enough. I turn to him, my heart in my throat. “No one has ever done anything like this for me.”
“Good. I like all your firsts.” He takes a beat, then nods to the table. “Want a sip of cocoa for fuel?”
“For what?”
With a smirk, he says, “You’ll see.”
I know better than to say no to hot cocoa, so I say yes and follow him down the steps, then pad through the freshly fallen snow. The world is still now, the sky quiet. But the yard is softly illuminated by the glow of snow and the reflected lights.
We reach the makeshift stand and he offers me a cup. A tendril of steam rises. I take a sip.
“It’s delicious. Sweet and a little milky,” I say.
“It didn’t win us the contest today,” he says with a shrug. But he seems unfazed. Maybe this—me—is the contest he’d rather win? Hope curls brightly inside me.
“I’m giving it a ten out of ten,” I say.
His green eyes flicker with…hope. The same hope I feel? “Let’s see what you give it after you visit the rest of the farm.”
“Are you giving me a tour?”
“No. I’m giving you a chase.”
I gasp, cold air filling my lungs and somehow making me hotter. “You are?”
“I sure am. I noticed at the Christmas tree farm—you seemed a little excited. A little turned on when I was close to you. I thought, too, there was something in your eyes—the start of something. And I thought maybe…you’d want me to catch you.” He licks his lips, like a hunter. “Was I wrong?”
My heart is beating so fast. My thighs clench. I ache between them. I want to be his prey.
I don’t know where these fantasies came from, but I knowwhenthey woke up. And he knows it too—the day we walked through the real tree farm weeks ago. When I imagined him pinning me against a tree. And I swear, he can read my mind. From the outdoor patio to the path by my parents’ house, this man has read a book of fantasies I didn’t know I owned—snow and cold and outdoor kink.
