Page 5

Holly

T he kitchen timer dings as I adjust my phone's camera angle to capture the perfect shot of my steaming peppermint mocha. The caption practically writes itself: “Fueling up for another magical day at Bennett's Christmas Tree Farm! Don't forget to visit us at the Winter Festival this weekend! #RileysRidgeChristmas #SmallTownMagic.”

I toggle to the farm's analytics page, grinning at the engagement stats.

“Sixty-eight likes in ten minutes!” I squeal at my phone screen, almost choking on my morning toast. “And that's only the teaser video!”

Okay, maybe the sudden spike in female followers has something to do with my “Meet the Team” video series. But two weeks of running the tree farm’s social media accounts has taught me a few things: raw lumber is surprisingly photogenic, fresh snow makes everything look magical, and nothing gets more engagement than videos of a certain grumpy lumberjack doing his thing.

Not that I've been specifically filming Nico or anything. It's just that he happens to be doing something impressive every time I pull out my phone. Like yesterday, when he hoisted two massive firs onto his shoulders like they weighed nothing, his flannel shirt stretching across those broad?—

My cheeks heat as I catch myself daydreaming again.

Ugh. Focus.

I smooth down the green velvet of my new elf costume, my heart racing as I check my reflection in the kitchen window. The dress hugs every curve like a second skin—the kind of outfit that might give Nico Bennett a heart attack. Perfect. Underneath, the lacy red bra and panties feel deliciously scandalous against my skin.

I’ve been working with Nico and I’m getting a handle on his style. Despite all the meaningful glances and “accidental” touches, all the opportunities that have come up have taught me something crucial about Nico Bennett: the man won't make the first move.

Yesterday, I caught him staring when he thought I wasn't looking. His eyes darkened before he turned away, muttering something about “workplace safety.”

Well, the mountain man might have “avoiding people” down to an art form, but subtle hints clearly aren't working. Time for the nuclear option: Operation Seduce the Mountain Man.

Even if it means jingling every time I move.

Mom floats into the kitchen, humming “Silver Bells,” her favorite mug full of piping hot tea. She pauses mid-hum, her eyes doing that subtle up-and-down they do when she's holding back from commenting on my outfits. “You're chipper this morning.”

“Did you see our latest posts? The behind-the-scenes content is connecting with people.” I hold up my phone, proudly displaying the farm's Instagram feed.

“That's nice, dear,” Mom says, using the same tone as when I announced I was quitting my city job and moving home. The same tone as when I started working at the farm. Her patented “I'm-worried-but-always-supportive” tone.

Mom settles at the kitchen table, wrapping both hands around her steaming cup. “It’s an awful lot of effort for seasonal work, honey.”

Dad's appearance in the doorway cuts her off. He stops short, newspaper tucked under one arm, reading glasses perched on his nose. His eyebrows climb toward his hairline as he takes in my outfit. “That's”—he adjusts his glasses like they might be malfunctioning—"festive.”

“Wait till you see the light-up version,” I say, striking a pose that makes the bells jingle. “Though that one's strictly for after dark. Workplace safety and all that.”

Dad settles at the table, unfolding his paper with a crisp snap. “I hope Nico appreciates your efforts.”

Heat crawls up my neck. Nico's default response to most things is stoic silence or the occasional grunt. He’s too busy prowling the fields with his ax like some rugged mountain man from a romance novel cover.

Not that I noticed.

Dad sets down his paper, using that gentle tone that makes me feel five years old again. “You're earning minimum wage, honey. Shouldn't you be looking for something more... substantial? Put that marketing degree to work?”

“I am putting it to work,” I say, keeping my voice professional despite the familiar sting. “I'm saving to start my own business. And the farm matters—you should see people's faces when they find their perfect Christmas tree.”

What I don't say? How I don't miss my old city life. The suffocating studio apartment. The soul-crushing client calls. The pitch meetings that left me feeling hollow inside. Here, at least, the work means something real.

“Sarah called last night.” Mom's voice has that studied casualness that sets off warning bells. “She cleared her schedule through New Year's.”

My smile feels brittle as I gather the empty dishes. “When does she arrive?”

“Next week.” Dad brightens visibly. “She's doing so well at the firm. Although she works too hard.”

Of course she does.

I focus on rinsing my plate in the sink, letting their voices fade into background noise. The water is scalding hot, but I barely notice. All I can think about is Sarah sweeping back into town and making my life difficult.

“I should head to work,” I say. “I’m leaving work early today. There's a vintage van for sale in Millbrook—perfect for my mobile florist business. The owner can only meet before dark.”

Dad folds the paper open at the weather report. “The Gazette says this storm could bring six to eight inches of snow. Highway patrol's already warning about travel conditions. Might want to reconsider that van viewing today.”

My heart sinks. I've been saving for months, and this van is perfect—already fitted with display shelves and everything. “Maybe I can get there before it hits. The owner says there's other interest.”

“Be careful driving up that mountain road,” Dad warns. “It gets treacherous, especially near Bennett's property. Remember when Sarah's car got stuck up there that Christmas Eve?”

Mom brightens at the memory. “That's right! Nico rescued her. They looked so sweet together, all bundled up in his truck.”

“I have snow tires,” I cut in, not wanting to hear another verse of “The Ballad of Sarah and Nico.”

That song ended years ago. Since breaking up with Nico, Sarah’s moved on with Tom, Dick, Harry and all of their cousins. Meanwhile, Nico is still brooding.

The image of being snowed in at the farm with Nico flashes through my mind. The two of us alone, a roaring fire?—

“Holly?” Mom's voice breaks through my completely inappropriate daydream. “Did you hear what I said? Sarah is excited to visit the farm and see how it's changed.”

Translation: Sarah's multitasking—keeping tabs on her ex while fulfilling her self-appointed role as my career critic. Big sister duties, apparently.

“Sarah always had good business instincts,” Dad adds proudly. “Probably why she and Nico didn't work out. She was meant for bigger things.”

Unlike me, goes unsaid.

Mom follows me to the door, adjusting my scarf like she did when I was young. “We're proud of you, sweetheart. We want you to be happy. Like Sarah. Your sister has dreams, ambitions.”

“So do I.” I step back, needing space. “But they’re different from hers.”

Different from what everyone expects of me. A mobile florist in Riley's Ridge. Roots in this community. Maybe even a family someday, although I keep that dream tucked away where no one can judge it.

The morning air hits me like a slap, and I pull my coat tighter. My boots crunch through the fresh snow as I head toward my car.

Let them compare me to Sarah. They don't see how the farm comes alive with each improvement I suggest. They don't see Nico's eyes crinkle at the corners when he tries not to smile at my ridiculous costumes.

They definitely don't see how my teenage crush has grown into something real—something worth fighting for.

Storm clouds are gathering over the mountain where Bennett's Tree Farm sits like a Christmas card come to life. Where a certain grumpy lumberjack is probably already hauling trees, unaware that his ex-girlfriend is about to blow back into town like an unwanted winter storm.

Sarah can try to reclaim her territory all she wants. I'm done being the good little sister who stays in her lane.

The engine turns over with a groan. I crank up the heat before checking my reflection, adjusting my elf hat at a jaunty angle. The silky lingerie whispers against my skin as I shift in the driver's seat.

Nico Bennett won't know what hit him.

Operation Seduce the Mountain Man is officially in progress.