Page 2

Nico

H olly Carter raises her phone, framing the giant spruce against the winter sky. Sunlight catches her hair, turning it to fire. My fingers itch to brush away the snowflakes settling on those red waves. The shade is stirring memories of a twelve-year-old girl with braces and braids, trailing behind her big sister, hiding behind books, and stealing glances at me.

The candy cane dress peeks out under her coat, a splash of Christmas cheer against winter white. There is no trace of the shy kid anymore. She moves with confidence and pulls at something in my chest.

“This tree must be at least fifty years old.” She circles the trunk, boots crunching in fresh snow. “Imagine the stories it could tell.”

“Sixty-three. My grandfather planted it the year he bought the land.”

She beams up at me. Christ. No one should look that appealing with a bright red nose and mittened hands. The years between us shrink and stretch with every smile—too many when I think about her age, not enough when she looks at me like that.

“That's exactly the kind of story your customers would love! Mind if I film a quick video?”

Before I can respond, she's pointing her phone at me. “Tell me about your grandfather.”

“I don't do social media.” The words come out harsher than intended. The bank's latest letter burns in my back pocket, a reminder that old-fashioned methods might not be enough anymore.

“Good thing I do, then.” She lowers the phone, but that sunshine smile doesn't dim. Nothing like Sarah's calculated charm—Holly's warmth reaches her eyes. “Because this place? It's magic. And people should know about it.”

I want to argue. Social media won't fix broken equipment or pay the bank loans. But she's already moving down the path, phone raised to capture the snow-laden branches. My heart kicks against my ribs as her boot hits an icy patch.

“Careful.” I catch up in two strides, my hand finding her elbow. Her small frame fits against my side like she was made for me. Dangerous thinking. “Path gets treacherous here.”

“My hero.” She tucks her free hand into my arm like it belongs, making me feel like a goddamn Victorian gentleman instead of a lumberjack with too much gray in his beard. “So, tell me about the different types of trees while I pretend not to be terrified of falling.”

“You're not scared.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

“Oh?” Her eyebrow arches as she steadies herself against my arm. “What makes you so sure?”

Because you’re fearless. You walked into my messy shop and made it yours in ten minutes flat. Because you're twenty-four, full of potential, and the last thing you need is to hitch your star to a sinking ship like Bennett's Tree Farm.

When I was twenty-four, I was dating her sister, convinced I knew everything. Now I'm thirty-six with gray in my beard and a business drowning in debt—the years between us stretch like a chasm.

“A hunch.” I guide her around a slick section of the path. The smell of vanilla and cinnamon drifts from her hair. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs and making my head spin. “Norway spruce like the old one back there. Blue spruce. Fraser fir. Each has its own character.”

“Like you.” The words are soft, almost lost in the mountain air.

My step falters. Holly can't say things like that. She can't look at me with those bright eyes like I'm an answer instead of a complication. Sarah used to look at me like I was her ticket out of Riley's Ridge. But Holly looks at me like she sees something worth staying for.

“Oh!” She releases my arm to dart toward a small clearing, and my side feels cold without her. “This would be perfect for photos. You could set up a cute backdrop and some lights. Families would love it.”

Her enthusiasm pulls at something long dormant in my chest. Through her eyes, my run-down farm transforms into something magical. But magic doesn't pay bills. It doesn't erase the twelve years between us or the complications her last name brings.

Movement in my cabin window catches my attention. Bear's massive black form presses against the glass, watching Holly with unusual interest.

“Is that your dog?” She bounces on her toes, nearly slipping again. My hand finds her elbow automatically, my body betraying my determination to keep a distance. “What’s his name?”

“Bear.” His name comes out gruff. Like owner, like dog. “He's not friendly with strangers.”

“Is that right?” That sunshine smile blazes at me, and this close, I catch another wave of cinnamon and vanilla.

Her eyes dance with mischief as she steps away, no doubt already plotting her next video.

“The wholesale lot's through there.” I point to it, desperate to maintain professional distance. “Equipment shed's behind it. Mind the ice.”

“Got it.” She's already moving, phone raised. “Oh! You could do virtual tours for people who can't make the drive. Maybe online ordering for wholesale clients—” She stops mid-spin, catching my expression. “Too much?”

“The job's selling trees,” I say, my voice gruffer than intended. “Not fixing my business.”

She tilts her head, studying me with those too-bright eyes. “Why not both?”

Because you make me want things I can't have. Watching you try to save this place will break something in me.

The bank statement in my back pocket feels heavier. Three generations of Bennetts have run this farm. None of them needed social media or virtual tours. But none faced competition from big box stores or the convenience of artificial trees.

“We should head back.” Storm clouds gather over the mountain. “You'll need proper boots tomorrow. And gloves. Real ones, not those mittens.”

“Worried about me?” She falls into step beside me, closer than necessary.

Yes. “Just being practical.”

Her laugh wraps around me like warm honey. “Sure it is. Like kicking all those boxes out of my way was purely practical.”

Heat crawls up my neck. She's too observant, too bright, too young. Too tempting.

“The staff's gone home,” I say instead of answering. “Lock up's at five.”

"Oh." She toys with her phone, a blush creeping up her cheeks. “I spotted a diner on my way up. If you wanted to grab hot chocolate? You could tell me more about the wholesale operation."

"I don't—" The word 'fraternize' dies on my tongue as she glances up, snowflakes caught in her lashes. She immediately looks down again, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Sorry, that was probably inappropriate." Her voice softens. "It's just... even lumberjacks need coffee breaks, right?”

Every reason I should say no crowds my throat. The age gap. The business. The whole damn town watching. But seeing her in my world, bringing color and life to everything she touches...

“Tomorrow,” I say firmly. “Eight AM. Proper boots.”

Her face lights up, and something warm unfurls in my chest. "I mean, yes. Eight AM. I'll bring coffee."

The smile she gives me could power the whole damn mountain. She practically bounces on her toes like it's Christmas morning, and I just gave her everything on her list. Before I can react, she leans in and presses a quick, soft kiss to my cheek.

"You won't regret this!" she whispers, already pulling away, pink staining her cheeks.

The words—and the ghost of her lips—hit somewhere beneath my ribs.

She hurries down the path toward her car, that ridiculous dress swishing beneath her coat. My body moves on instinct when she hits an icy patch, but she catches herself. The shy smile she sends over her shoulder sucker punches me right in the chest.

I watch until her taillights disappear before heading to my office. Focusing on invoices and bank statements feels impossible. A text from an unknown number lights up my phone.

“Found these boots! Crisis averted. See you at 8! ”

The Christmas tree emoji mocks me. I should delete the text. Should set boundaries. Keep things professional.

Instead, I save her number and grab my coat, hoping that the effort of moving trees will knock some sense into me because Holly Carter is sunshine and Christmas spirit and everything I can't afford to want.

And I'm already in trouble.