Page 7 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show

That won’t do. Clark was adamant he wants Luke Hawthorne to be his Mr. Right, and I won’t let him leave without explanation.

“Luke did enter the second round of the application process?” I ask Ella. “He did confirm he was interested in the spot?”

“Yes. In fact, he was effusive. He laughed a lot at the prospect. He seemed...joyful.”

Effusive? Joyful? There are many words to describe Luke.

But effusive? No, not him. No way.

“I should go after him,” I say.

“Yeah.” She stares at me, and I realize too late it’s because I’m not moving.

“Okay.”

I dash from the coffee shop.

I see Luke at once. His figure towers over the other pedestrians. His blond hair glints under the streetlamp, and his looming figure makes large tracks in the thickening layer of snow.

“Luke!” I holler.

His steps quicken.

Shit.

I hurry after him. My designer wool coat that’s nothing like the puffy monstrosity I used to wear in Massachusetts flaps around me.

He’s too dignified to actually run, or maybe he doesn’t think he would actually need to do so.

“Luke!” I call again.

He doesn’t turn to me, but I’m almost beside him. My breath tumbles, my shoes slide.

Then all of a sudden, I’m falling backwards. My hands flail.

In the next moment, Luke swings around, and about a tenth of a second after that, he grasps hold of my hand. He pulls me toward him, and I’m no longer heading toward the ice-and-snow smudged ground in an embarrassing manner, but instead toppling toward his chest in an equally embarrassing manner.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low. The sound thrums through my body.

If I didn’t know him better, I would say he was nice.

Unfortunately, I do know him better.

I stiffen and step away, hoping my nostrils don’t flare at his scent.

It’s probably sweat. No reason for me to act like a parfumier who has just created his masterpiece. I look away and hope my cheeks aren’t burning and my breath is not coming out as fast as I think it is.

“Are you okay?” Luke asks, his voice still low and soothing, as if he’s auditioning to be an audiobook narrator.

I stiffen, and my shoulders square automatically. “Fine.”

“Well.” He pauses. “I guess I’ll go.”

“You might not catch me in time if I run after you again.”

His lips twitch. “No.”

I allow myself to scrutinize him. I see where his soft baby skin has turned to clean shaven and where his features have firmed. The Luke I remember only became taller than me my last year in Ashcove. He used to cast his blue eyes about, as if he was just as surprised at seeing everyone from a taller perspective as everyone else was at seeing him up there.