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Chapter One

I vy

The icy air nips at my cheeks as I step out of my car, wrapping my arms around myself. It’s quiet up here, the soft crunch of my boots on the snow-covered gravel the only sound against the backdrop of pines dusted with fresh snowfall. The grungy sign outside the garage reads “Cole’s Repairs,” painted in faded red that almost blends into the brick.

The garage itself is uninviting, but I’m desperate. My car, filled to the brim with garlands, Santa hats, and reindeer antlers, sits awkwardly in front of the garage, steam puffing out from under the hood. Not exactly the festive entry I had in mind for this trip.

I make my way toward the open bay door, peeking inside. It’s dim, the scent of motor oil and grease heavy in the air, but I spot him instantly—broad shoulders hunched over a motorcycle, his hands working confidently at some piece of machinery. Even from here, I can see the tightness in his jaw, the focus etched across his face.

“Um… hello?” My voice bounces off the metal walls, interrupting the almost reverent silence of his workspace.

He doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, he takes his time, his gaze dragging up from my boots, over my sweater covered in tiny Christmas lights, and stopping at my red wool hat with its ridiculous pom-pom.

“You lost, Mrs. Claus?” His voice is a low rumble, steady and unimpressed.

I raise an eyebrow, refusing to be put off. “Actually, I was on my way up the mountain to find the perfect tree for my classroom. But it seems my car had other plans.”

His eyes flick to the festive chaos spilling out of my backseat, then back to me. “Looks like you’re hauling half of Santa’s workshop in there. You sure it’s not you who overloaded the poor thing?”

I narrow my eyes. “For your information, Mr. Grinch, I was doing Copper Mountain a favor, spreading some Christmas cheer.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Didn’t realize Copper Mountain needed saving. Or that I needed holiday cheer shoved in my face.”

“Everyone could use a little cheer,” I counter, folding my arms. “Especially you.”

“Oh, really?” He lets out a dry chuckle, his eyes sharp, assessing. “You think you can tell what I need, just by looking at me?”

The intensity in his gaze throws me off balance, but I plant my feet. “Let’s just say you look like someone who’d end up on the Naughty List.”

His laugh this time is full, rough, and it sends a jolt of heat straight through me. “Naughty List, huh?” He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. “Careful, Mrs. Claus. You don’t wanna know what happens to those who try to put me on that list.”

I try to steady my breathing, even as he invades my space, the scent of motor oil and cedar filling my senses. “Well, someone has to keep you in check.”

“Good luck with that,” he mutters, his eyes grazing over me with an intensity that makes me feel exposed. “So, what am I supposed to do with this mess of yours?” He gestures toward my car, a hint of humor in his otherwise gruff expression.

I lift my chin, refusing to let him rattle me. “If you could look under the hood, that would be a start. I’m on a bit of a mission here, and I’m not letting a grumpy mechanic stop me.”

He smirks, one dark eyebrow arching. “Oh, is that right? A ‘mission,’ huh? Lemme guess—finding that perfect tree to ‘wow’ your little audience of six-year-olds?”

I meet his gaze head-on. “It’s actually third graders. And yes, I want the perfect tree. Why shouldn’t they have something festive and beautiful to look at?”

His eyes drop to my lips, lingering there a moment before he says, “I can think of plenty of beautiful things to look at.”

Heat floods my cheeks, but I keep my voice steady. “Well, I’m glad you agree.”

He grunts, unimpressed, then moves around me toward the car, his arm brushing against mine. His touch, rough and unintentional, leaves a trail of tingling awareness in its wake. He lifts the hood, peering inside, his strong hands working with practiced ease as he pokes around.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that Christmas spirit doesn’t come from how many shiny things you can pack into a car?” His voice is muffled as he bends under the hood.

“And didn’t anyone ever tell you that a little holiday cheer never killed anyone?” I shoot back, leaning against the car.

He straightens, his face suddenly inches from mine, his eyes narrowing in challenge. “You really think you can change people just by tossing a few garlands around?”

I hold my ground. “I think people sometimes need a reminder that there’s good in the world. That maybe, if they opened their hearts a little, they might find it, too.”

His gaze hardens, and for a moment, I think I’ve pushed too far. But then, he lets out a slow, amused breath, the air fogging between us. “Well, you’re in the wrong garage, babe. I’m not the type that needs saving.”

“Maybe not,” I admit, meeting his stare. “But I’d say you’re definitely the type who needs a little holiday spirit.”

He shakes his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep dreaming, Mrs. Claus.”

I roll my eyes. “And for the record, it’s Ivy. Not Mrs. Claus. You think every woman in a red hat’s on some mission to change your life?”

He chuckles, low and gritty. “No, but it’s a hell of an image.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Especially when she’s got a mouth like yours. Full of sass.”

The air grows heavy between us, his words lingering, taunting. My pulse quickens, a spark flaring in my chest. I glance down, taking in his broad shoulders, the way his flannel shirt stretches over his chest. I can feel his gaze as if it’s brushing over my skin, and the thought alone sends a thrill racing through me.

“So… are you gonna fix my car, or just stand there looking pretty?” I challenge, hoping the sass in my voice covers the racing of my heart.

“Pretty?” He raises an eyebrow, stepping even closer until there’s barely a sliver of space between us. “You think I’m pretty, huh?”

I swallow, my cheeks heating. “I didn’t say that.”

“Sure you did.” His grin is cocky, unfiltered. “But let me guess—Christmas cheer means denying whatever you really want to say?”

“I think you’re the one assuming a lot of things here,” I counter, my voice a little shaky. “Maybe I’m just being polite.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that sends another spark of heat down my spine. “Well, let me tell you, polite or not, I’m not about to roll over just because some Christmas-crazy woman batted her eyes at me.”

My breath catches, and I struggle to find a comeback that doesn’t betray the growing tension in my stomach. “Good thing I wasn’t planning on batting anything, then.”

His eyes darken, and he takes another step forward, his voice dropping. “Careful, Ivy. Keep looking at me like that, and you’ll find yourself right on that Naughty List with me.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “I thought you didn’t believe in that sort of thing.”

“Oh, I don’t.” He leans in, his gaze locking with mine. “But I can make an exception. Especially for someone who thinks they can play me.”

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. The way he’s looking at me, the intensity in his eyes, it’s like he can see right through every witty retort, every attempt at indifference. My breath catches, and his gaze dips to my lips.

For a brief, electric moment, I think he might kiss me. I think I might let him.

But then he straightens, a smug grin flashing across his face. “Tell you what, Mrs. Claus. I’ll get your car running again. But you’re gonna owe me.”

I raise an eyebrow, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Owe you? For doing your job?”

“Consider it a Christmas favor,” he says, his gaze lingering on me in a way that feels almost predatory. “And don’t worry, I know exactly how I’ll collect.”

The implication is clear, and my heart pounds as I fight to keep my composure. “Fine. I’ll owe you. But don’t think for a second that you’re getting off my Naughty List.”

He chuckles, turning back to the car. “Babe, I live on that list. You’re just catching up.”