Page 1

Holly

“ R ejected again?” Mrs. Jenkins slides a fresh mug of peppermint hot chocolate beside my crumpled resume. “Their loss, honey. Though if you're looking for work...”

She leans over the diner counter, voice dropping to a staged whisper reserved for Grade A gossip. “Bennett's Tree Farm is hemorrhaging staff. The third-generation business might not make it to Christmas.”

My hand freezes mid-stir, peppermint candy cane dissolving forgotten in my mug. After three weeks of rejection letters and dwindling savings, this could be my chance. “Nico Bennett's place?”

“Poor man's struggling. Equipment's breaking down, can't keep workers, and these big box stores selling plastic trees?” She clucks her tongue. “Takes more than muscles and good looks to run a business these days.”

Nico Bennett. The man who'd made my awkward pre-teen years bearable. My sister's ex-boyfriend would slip me hot chocolate and teach me the names of different evergreens, but that was before things went sour with Sarah.

My marketing brain whirs to life. Small business, established customer base, untapped digital markets…

“Social media campaigns could triple his holiday sales.” I pull up Instagram on my phone. Zero posts. Not even a website. “Only a basic online ordering system, no delivery service...”

“Sounds fancy.” Mrs. Jenkins winks. “But that boy needs help now. Two employees quit right after Thanksgiving.”

I slap cash on the diner counter to cover my bill and tip, sweep my resume into my purse, and bolt home to slip into my lucky candy cane sweater dress. The dress might be overkill for selling Christmas trees, but looking the part could convince Nico to hire me.

My boots crunch through fresh snow as I climb the winding path to Bennett's. Pine and balsam fill my lungs, flooding me with memories. God, I'd forgotten this—real air, room to breathe, friendly faces nodding hello.

After what happened last month... Well, some wake-up calls come with flashing lights and sirens. Sometimes, they send you running home to start over.

The frosted window catches my reflection, and for once, I don't look away. The candy cane-striped sweater dress skims my curves like it was made for me.

Red hair tumbles past my shoulders, wild and free, staging a rebellion. No more drowning in shapeless sweaters—this body's done playing hide and seek. I'm done hiding who I am. The mobile florist business plan on my laptop proves that.

The door flies open. My heart stops as Nico Bennett fills the doorframe, all six-plus feet of flannel-clad mountain man towering over me.

His dark hair is a mess, longer than I remember, and the silver flecks in his beard have no business looking that good. His winter-blue eyes widen with recognition, then narrow as he studies my face.

“Holly?” His voice roughens like whiskey over woodsmoke. “Holly Carter?”

My stomach flips. Ten years since the messy breakup with Sarah sent him retreating into his mountain man solitude. Will he see me as my own person now or just another Carter woman ready to complicate his life?

“Hi, Nico.” The words catch in my throat as his grip tightens on the door frame, knuckles white against weathered wood.

“What brings you back to Riley's Ridge?”

“Mrs. Jenkins mentioned you might need holiday help.” I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of confidence I can muster.

He steps back, a silent invitation to enter. The movement brings him closer, his broad frame making the doorway shrink. Heat radiates off him as I slip past, my shoulder barely brushing his chest.

The shop interior stops me in my tracks. Rustic would be a kind description. Bare wooden walls stretch upward, lonely strings of lights draped like sad afterthoughts. Noble firs and blue spruces prop against every available surface, while two men in neon safety vests wrestle a massive fir through the back door.

Nico kicks a box of ornaments from my path. “Why leave the city?” His gruff question comes with another protective gesture as he guides me around a precarious stack of wreaths, his hand hovering near my elbow. “Thought all you Carter women were corporate types.”

“For heaven's sake, this tree is asymmetrical!”

A woman in designer boots, whose tone could strip paint, taps an impatient rhythm against the wood floor, pointing at a Douglas fir.

“Ma'am, I understand your concerns—” Nico strides toward her, his shoulders bunching beneath his flannel shirt. “Let me show you another option.”

“I've already looked at six trees!” The customer's voice rises another octave. “And each one has been worse than the last. Do you even know what you're doing?”

Three years of handling nightmare clients kick in before I can overthink it. “Excuse me,” I step forward. “Sorry to interrupt. You're looking for a statement piece. Something that will wow the neighbors?”

The woman blinks, momentarily startled out of her tirade. Behind me, Nico radiates heat like a wall of warmth, his massive presence blocking out the rest of the shop.

“Well, yes, but?—”

“You're going to love this.” I gesture to the Douglas fir like I'm unveiling a masterpiece. “The natural asymmetry? That's what makes it perfect for creating depth in your display. When you're decorating a room, do you want everything symmetrical? Of course not. You want visual interest.”

I run my hand along one of the branches, demonstrating how the needles catch the light. Three marketing pitches about optimal ornament placement and lighting angles tumble from my lips. Each time I move, Nico shifts his stance as if ready to catch me if I stumble.

The customer's expression shifts from skeptical to considering. “But what about the bare spot on this side?”

“That's not a bare spot—it's an opportunity.” I grab a box of lights from a nearby display.

The teenage employee is gawking, but Nico waves him away, his attention fixed on my sales pitch.

“Add strategic lighting here, and those variations become artistic shadow play. The fuller side faces the window, while this side leaves room for your special ornaments to shine.”

The air crackles with Nico's attention. My skin prickles with awareness as I work, but I don't dare look at him. Instead, I drape a frosted garland across a display, matching it perfectly to the tree. The safety-vested workers pause their tree wrestling to watch, exchanging looks when Nico ignores their attempts to get his attention.

“Frame your window with this and add these remote-controlled lights.” I grab a stunning silver and crystal wreath. “This piece above the window? Your neighbors won't just see a tree. They'll see a magazine-worthy Christmas display.”

The woman laughs. “That would show them, wouldn't it?”

Ten minutes later, the bell chimes farewell as she leaves, arms laden with her “asymmetrical” tree and enough decorations to light up half of Riley's Ridge. My saleswoman's smile holds until she disappears down the steps.

“I'm sorry if I overstepped,” I say, turning to find Nico much closer than expected.

His gaze flicks to my dress and lingers a moment too long before darting away. “That was... “ His voice trails off as he steps closer. His cologne mingles with coffee and winter air, making my head spin. “Impressive.”

“Thanks.” I smooth my dress, hyper-aware of his proximity. “So, about that job?—”

“The city must've paid better than minimum wage plus commission.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it further. “Corporate marketing to Christmas trees is quite a change.”

“Good things grow in small towns.” The words spill out before I can stop them.

His eyes lock on mine, searching. “Office is this way,” he says, gesturing toward a door. “If you still want the job.”

The energy in the shop shifts as we walk. Employees scatter from Nico's path, their whispers falling silent. The safety-vested workers pause mid-lift with a Fraser fir between them, waiting for instructions. Nico doesn't even glance their way.

The gangly teenager pipes up about a late delivery, his voice cracking. Nico's hand brushes against my lower back as he guides me past them, ignoring their startled looks. No one moves until we pass, like trees bending away from a storm.

The office makes a broom closet look spacious. Nico's broad shoulders block the doorway as he flicks on the light. “Watch your step.” His voice roughens as I slip past him, the cramped space forcing me closer than is deemed comfortable.

One desk dominates the tiny room, its surface buried under paperwork. Two chairs squeeze in like afterthoughts. The scent of coffee and pine intensifies in the enclosed space, mixing with something distinctly Nico.

“Have a seat.” He clears a stack of invoices from the visitor's chair. “Unless the corporate world spoiled you for folding chairs and bad lighting.”

The lamplight catches the silver in his hair, and my fingers itch to brush through it. “I think I'll survive.”

I sink into the chair, gripping my purse to keep my hands still. I got the job. Phase one of Operation New Life is underway. The seasonal job will cover my expenses while I develop my mobile florist business plan. And if I help save Bennett's Tree Farm along the way, it'll be a bonus.

“Why come back to Riley's Ridge?” Nico shuffles through a drawer, not meeting my eyes. “Most people don't trade high rises for Christmas trees.”

He hands me the employment forms. The paper crinkles beneath my fingers. “Maybe I missed the trees.”

“Holly.” My name in his deep voice shoots warmth through my chest. “The truth.”

“The city wasn't...” Images flash—concrete walls, endless meetings, Sarah's perfectly curated life I was supposed to want. “It wasn't home.”

His hands still over the paperwork. Something flickers in his eyes before he looks down again. “And Riley's Ridge is?”

“It could be.” My heart pounds as his gaze lifts to mine. “With the right opportunity.”

My pen scratches across the paper while Nico studies inventory lists, his massive frame making the desk look like doll furniture. Everything about him is overwhelming—his height, presence, the way his eyes keep finding mine despite his attempts to focus on the paperwork.

Am I making a terrible mistake? How can I focus on saving his business when being near him scrambles my thoughts?

“Eight AM tomorrow.” He stands as I finish the last form, and the office shrinks further. “Dress warm. The mountain's unforgiving in December.”

“Will do. Don’t worry about me.” I rise too quickly, my boot catching on the chair leg. I pitch forward with a squeak.

Nico moves faster than a man his size should. His hands catch my waist, steadying me against his chest. Time freezes. His heart thunders against my palms. My fingers curl into his flannel shirt without permission.

“Sorry!” I straighten but don't step back. I can't with the chair behind me and Nico's warmth flooding my senses. “I swear I'm usually more coordinated than this. That's a lie. I'm always this clumsy. Good thing you're solid as a tree trunk.”

“Be careful.” His hands linger at my waist for a heartbeat too long before dropping away. The loss hits like a cold wind. “Working here is dangerous enough without?—”

“Without me tripping over my own feet?” His gruff concern wraps around me like a blanket. “I'll try not to face-plant into any Christmas trees.”

He makes a sound that might be a laugh—or possibly indigestion—it's hard to tell with the grumpy lumberjack type.

Not that I mind. A girl doesn't wear a dress that makes her look like a candy cane unless she's hoping to catch someone's attention.

I edge toward the door before I do something stupid like lean into him again.

“Wait.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You should probably see the operation before tomorrow. If you still want the job after the tour.”

My pulse skips. “Lead the way, boss.”

His jaw tightens at the word “boss,” but he gestures for me to precede him. “Bundle up. Most of it's outside.”

I dig mittens from my purse, hyperaware of his presence, as he shrugs into a work coat that makes his shoulders look even broader. My phone weighs heavy in my pocket. The farm's nonexistent social media presence begs for attention, but something tells me Nico Bennett needs more time before listening to my marketing plans.

Baby steps, Holly. Win him over first.