“All hail Miss Christmas,” they say in unison.
“This meeting of the Sugar Plum Ladies is officially adjourned!” We place our hands together, one on top of the other, then let them fly.
I head upstairs, grab my coat, and check the time. Fifteen minutes till I’m running romantic drills with my grumpy, stupidly hot client-slash-competition.
No big deal. Except for the part where he kissed me senseless last week under the mistletoe. But tonight’s not about my desire. Tonight is about my client, and my goal is to help him, not to ogle him. “You’re Miss Christmas,” I say to myself as I leave the bakery. “There’s nothing you can’t handle during the holidays.”
Over the years, I’ve handled missing gifts, a dog who ate the reindeer’s cookies, and a stolen yule log cake at a corporate Christmas retreat. I can manage a few flutters.
As I tighten my coat against the chilly winter air, my boots crunch over the remains of the snow along Main Street toward the diner. I pass the display at A Likely Story, its windows full of Christmas romances peeking out of stockings, then reach the Candy Cane Diner, with its red-and-white striped door.
I pull it open. And my chest heats when I spot Rowan at the counter, wearing…another Santa sweater?
His lush lips are curved up, like he’s smirking. Well, he probably is.
When he spots me, he rises, and I stop in my tracks. Isthat a Christmas moose on his sweater? It’s subtler than the Santa one he wore earlier. It’s something you might pick up in a store here rather than a novelty online shop. I resume my pace, striding to him.
“Hey there,” he says, his voice a sexy rasp, the sound sliding down my spine.
It…disarms me. “Hi.”
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. I catch the scent of his cologne—that ocean breeze scent, masculine and enticing. It wraps around me, and my eyes flutter closed for a second or two as his lips dust across my skin.
These aren’t just flutters. These are sparks. The full-throttle kind.
He steps back and I nearly grab his arm to steady myself. But I manage to stand through the fog of lust.
Rowan gestures to a booth. “I asked for a booth in the corner. Seemed date-like,” he says.
He has no idea. “Perfect,” I say, but it comes out feathery.
Get it together.
But when he sets a hand on my back and guides me through the diner, decked out with garlands and wreaths, I’m not sure Icanget it together.
We sit in the booth. My hands feel light, airy. My chest is fizzy. Rowan’s looking at me with something in his eyes I can’t quite make out, but it’s almost a game day kind of intensity.
“Should we order?” I ask, desperately focusing on something other than butterflies.
“Yes, but I know what I want.”
My stomach flipsagain. I shouldn’t look up. Really, I shouldn’t. Just because I want him to sayme. But I look up anyway. “And what’s that?”
He holds my gaze, long and lingering, no signs of breaking it. Then he says, “A chicken sandwich and fries. Can’t beat ’em.”
I laugh. That wasn’t what I’d expected, but something about the normalcy of it delights me. Am I in thatwanting to know everything about himphase?
“I’ll do a veggie burger and fries.”
“Want to split a milkshake?”
That sounds romantic. “I do,” I blurt out before thinking the better of it. “Chocolate. Would chocolate work? I’m craving that.”
“What do you know? I like to satisfy your cravings,” he says.
A flush races up my chest and spreads across my neck. My face is hot. “Great,” I say, or maybe I mumble it, since I’m wondering how obvious it is to Rowan where my thoughts are.
When the server arrives a few seconds later, I’m relieved for the distraction. She wears slacks and a red polo, with her hair pulled back in a white scrunchie—on brand for the diner. “How’s your day, Phillipa?”
