Page 6

Nico

T he sun isn’t even up, but Holly Carter is perched on a stack of pallets with her damn phone, turning my morning work routine into some kind of lumberjack photoshoot.

Not that I checked my reflection in the truck window before getting out. Or spent extra time trimming my beard this morning. And this flannel is clean, but it's not my best one. The fact that it’s the same color that Holly said brought out my eyes last week is a coincidence.

“Little early for social media, isn’t it?” I call out, puffing up my barrel chest like some preening rooster, the buttons of my flannel straining from the effort. Christ, I’m pathetic.

She grins, giving me that sunshine smile that makes my chest tight. “Early morning light is perfect for catching authentic moments. Plus, I have to head to the shop soon.”

Authentic moments. Because nothing is more authentic than pretending I don’t notice Holly filming while I haul trees around like some performing bear. But she’s been here every morning this week, showing up before dawn to work on her “content creation” before heading to her paid job. Her dedication would be admirable if her presence in the work yard wasn’t so distracting.

My lips still burn from yesterday's kiss, that moment replaying every time I close my eyes. She'd been sprawled across my chest in the snow, fearless and warm, and I'd wanted... Christ, I'd wanted everything. But wanting and having are different things, especially when there's twelve years between you. Especially when the woman in question deserves better than a struggling tree farmer with more responsibilities than prospects.

A branch snags my sleeve as I hoist the Fraser Fir. The tree’s weight shifts, forcing me to brace my legs and flex my arms to keep control. Movement catches my eye—Holly leaning forward on her perch, phone raised, capturing my graceless wrestling match with an oversized Christmas tree.

My muscles burn with the effort to make it look effortless. Nothing says professional lumberjack like losing a fight with your own inventory.

“Boss!” Mike’s voice carries across the yard. “Number two saw’s acting up again.”

I set the tree in position, rolling my shoulders. Mike is standing out front of the maintenance shed, holding a commercial chainsaw. Replacing it would cost a month’s worth of profits.

“Don’t run it,” I bark, crossing the yard.

Holly scrambles down from her perch, trailing after me with that phone still recording. I tense, tracking her movement through the equipment-littered yard. One misplaced step in those impractical boots of hers...

“Stay back,” I warn, my voice rougher than intended. “Shop rule—only certified operators near the saws.”

Mike shoots me a knowing look. He’s worked here for fifteen seasons and knows every chainsaw we own inside out. Knows me too well, apparently, given the way his eyes dart between Holly and me.

I pull off my work gloves, tucking them in my back pocket as I take the saw from Mike. “Get the guys started on loading the Harrison order. I’ll handle this.”

“You sure? I could?—”

“Already down two workers this season. Need you in one piece.” I reach for the toolbox, the familiar weight settling in my hands. “And someone needs to make sure the new girl doesn’t trip over anything while making her videos.”

Holly’s laugh rings out across the yard. “The new girl can hear you.”

I focus on the saw’s engine, refusing to look at her. But my mouth betrays me. “Then maybe you’ll listen when I tell you that area isn’t safe.”

Mike chuckles, heading toward the loading zone. “Yes, boss. Whatever you say, boss.”

I adjust the idle setting, the metal cool against my bare fingers. Holly edges closer, and my muscles tense again. But she stays behind the yellow safety line—the one I painted last week after watching her nearly collide with a stack of pallets while filming.

“You’re good with them,” she says softly. “Your crew.”

My grunt is noncommittal. These men depend on me for their livelihoods. Their families need those paychecks, especially during the holidays. The bank notice burning a hole in my desk upstairs makes that responsibility weigh heavier each day.

“They respect you,” she says, phone lowered now. “Everyone does. That’s why I’ve been filming. People need to see what I see—the care you take, the expertise, the authenticity of this place.”

The saw roars to life, smooth and steady.

“You’ve been filming me without permission.” I grip the chainsaw handle tighter, needing something solid to hold on to. “What are you doing with the videos?”

Her fingers dance across the phone screen. “They’re not for public viewing. Yet.”

I straighten, wiping my hands on a shop rag. “Holly?—”

“I have some ideas. Ways to compete with the box stores that are undercutting your prices.” She sketches pictures in the air as she talks, painting a vision of Bennett’s future. “People love DIY content. How-to videos, behind-the-scenes tutorials. That’s valuable information and has broad appeal.”

I set the chainsaw on its wall mount with more force than necessary. “I run a lumber yard, not a how-to business.”

She lifts her chin, signaling that she’s about to steamroll over my objections. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Please?”

That “please” hits me like a physical blow. Dangerous word when ushered from pretty lips.

“People love stories about real people. And you’re the real deal. A family-owned farm competing against corporate giants.”

She holds up her phone, showing me a clip of the crew prepping trees at sunrise.

The footage captures something I see every morning—the quiet pride in the work, the camaraderie between the men, the mountain backdrop painting everything in gold.

My protest dies in my throat.

“And this one...” She swipes to a video of me demonstrating a tree-cutting technique to Mike’s nephew last week. “See how you take time to teach? That’s what people connect with. That’s what sets you apart from big box stores.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Who would watch this?”

Her laugh rings across the yard, bright and confident. Her smile hints at something else, but she’s already pulling up another video before I can decipher it.

I test the words, tasting their absurdity. “You’re suggesting we sell Christmas trees by turning my crew into social media stars ?”

I can’t deny the shop runs smoother since she reorganized the inventory system. Sales are up fifteen percent from the updates she made to the window displays.

But the idea of being on social media makes my skin crawl. My family’s legacy is not a reality show.

“What’s next?” I growl, crossing my arms. You want me to wear a Santa suit and bounce babies on my knee?”

Holly’s eyes light up. “Actually...”

“No.”

The future flashes before me, brutal in its beauty—a little boy with her wild curls and my eyes, giggling on my lap while Holly stands behind us, her fingers warm on my shoulder, our family complete?—

“You're perfect for this, Nico. That beard screams Santa for the kids, and—” she bites her lip, eyes dancing “—the moms will love the rugged lumberjack vibe.”

I grab fresh snow, crushing it against my face to drown the ache of wanting. Of imagining things I can't have. The ice bites, anchoring me to reality.

“Your business sense is impressive.” And it is—she's transformed my simple tree lot into something magical. Her touch is everywhere, from the organized stockroom to the new displays drawing a steady stream of customers. “But this social media stuff?—”

A snowball hits my chest, cutting off my protest in a burst of white powder. Her aim is as deadly as that smile. “Did you?—”

Holly’s laughter sparkles through the icy air as she dances backward, her red sweater bright against the snow. Those nimble fingers are already crafting another weapon. “Come on, Mr. Christmas Tree King. Show me what you've got!”

Awesome. My entire crew has ringside seats to their boss getting pelted with snowballs. The second one smacks my shoulder, and her victory dance isn't helping my dignity.

“Are you testing my reflexes?” Steam clouds my words as I pack snow between my palms.

“This is market research!” She darts behind a tree, leaving boot prints in the snow, laughter trailing behind her.

God, her smile is addictive.

My throw catches the branches above her, and she shrieks as snow rains down on her curls. Mike shoots me a smirk from the loading dock that says I'm not fooling anyone. For once, I don't care who's watching.

A blast of Arctic air sweeps across the yard, dusting Holly's curls with snow. She's pink-cheeked from our battle, but a full-body shiver gives her away, even as she tries to hide it.

“Inside,” I order, yanking my gloves from my back pocket. “Before you freeze.”

Her eyes widen. “Does this mean you'll listen to my pitch?”

“This means I’m not explaining to your parents why their daughter turned into an icicle on my watch.” I point to the shop entrance, ignoring how my hands itch to shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shivering frame. “Fifteen minutes, then you're on register duty.”

My crew finds urgent work stacking timber as we pass, but Mike's knowing grin says I'll never hear the end of this one.

She skips to the office, hugging her phone like it's filled with holiday magic. I follow, lying that I'm escaping the cold, not chasing that smile.

“Take a seat by the heater,” I say, moving toward my desk.

Holly perches on the chair closest to the radiator, pulling out her phone again.

“I suggest that we show people the heart of Bennett’s.” She pulls up another video, but her fingers tremble. “The craft, the expertise, the?—”

“Phone down.” I grab my work coat from the hook, its worn canvas rough against my palms. “Here.”

Her fingers pause mid-text. “But you'll freeze.”

“I have enough insulation.” A lame excuse, but leaving her shivering is not an option. “Take it before you catch pneumonia. Can't sell trees from a hospital bed.”

The coat swallows her when I settle it on her shoulders, making her look like a kid playing dress-up in her dad's clothes. Something protective and dangerous twists in my chest.

I spin toward the coffeemaker, desperate for distraction.“Take this.” I press a steaming mug into her hands. “We’ll continue this discussion after closing. If you’re available.”

She clutches the coffee, nearly swallowed by my coat. “Really?”

“Really. Now go earn your paycheck.”

Her smile could melt the snow outside. “Tonight, then.”

The bank notice mocks me from my desk, the amount burning into my skull. Fifteen thousand dollars. Equipment loans don't care that we're heading into our busiest season. Don't care that my crew's counting on holiday bonuses.

Fat snowflakes drift past the yellow security light outside my office window, adding another layer to the fresh powder coating the lot. Only two cars remain—mine and a little red Honda, practically buried in snow.

My fingers crumple the paperwork. Holly shouldn’t be working this late to get my attention. And she should certainly not be driving home in this weather.

One week at Bennett's, and everything's different. The shop runs like clockwork. Customers linger and spend more. Even Bear, my trusty wingman, turns into a lovesick puppy around her.

I'm right there with him, resisting Holly’s charms but failing miserably.

Six o'clock. Right on time, she breezes in wearing my coat, laptop tucked under one arm.

“Brought backup.” She sets down two steaming mugs. “Peppermint hot chocolate.”

“Bribing me with sugar?”

“Is it working?”

She claims the chair across from me, spreading out her phone and notebook covered in precise writing. The office walls close in—they always do when she's here.

“Let's see these numbers you're so excited about.”

She straightens, all business now. “Silver Pines is your main competition, right? The artificial tree place?”

“Them and the Madison Mall setup.” My teeth grind. “Mass-produced garbage at prices we can't match.”

“But that's exactly it.” She taps her notebook, eyes bright. “They can't match what you offer. The experience. The expertise?—”

“The overhead?” The bank notice burns in my drawer.

“No.” That determined chin lifts. “They also don't have three generations of knowledge about tree cultivation. Or a crew that treats customers like family. Or...” Her cheeks flush. “Or an owner who spends an hour helping a kid pick the perfect Christmas treeand then teaches him how to care for it.”

The room suddenly feels ten degrees warmer. “You filmed that?”

“Marketing gold.” Her eyes dance. “But it's real. That's what people want. Authenticity. Tradition.”

She's young enough to navigate TikTok while I think hashtags come with eggs. But her passion hooks me. “Social media's the answer?”

Holly walks me through projections and strategies. It's Greek to me, but the way she talks about Bennett's—like it's precious, worth saving—is what gets me.

“Pre-orders could cover the equipment loan repayments.” She points to her screen. “With a proper tracking system?—”

“How'd you know about the loans?”

Pink stains her cheeks. “Same way I know you cover Matt's shifts since his baby came early. That you let the Wilsons delay payment on account of Mr. Wilson losing his job.” Her gaze holds mine. “I notice things.”

The words hit somewhere beneath my ribs.

“Change is hard. Sometimes, not changing is harder.” Her voice softens. “Let me help, Nico. Please?”

That “please” should come with a warning label.

I hear myself say. “Show me what you can do.”