Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“I’m not cold.”
“Your hands are icicles.”
“My hands are always cold this time of year.”
I don’t reply, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her sit back in her seat. Her head is turned toward the passenger side window.
“I’m sorry, Oliver. I don’t know what happened to make you hate Christmas, but I’m sorry. It’s a magical time of year, and my heart hurts for you that you don’t experience the magic.”
I slide my hand to her thigh and squeeze gently. “Long time ago,” I repeat.
“What about before?”
“Before what?”
“Before whatever happened in the past? Did you love Christmas then?”
“Yeah.” My lips twitch with a grin. “My mom goes all out, and my parents have held an annual holiday party every year since they’ve been married. This year will be thirty-five years.”
“Wow. That’s awesome. I bet your mom and I would be the best of friends,” she says with a chuckle.
My hand is still on her thigh, over the dress pants she wore today, and I have no plans to move it. Instead, my thumb traces small patterns. “Yeah,” I agree. She’s right, my mother would love her. Both my parents would love her. In the short amount of time I’ve been around her, I can’t find a single thing about Blakely Kincaid that I don’t like.
Even her love for Christmas.
“Hey, are we going to your place?” she asks.
“We are. I put dinner in the Crock-Pot before I left for work this morning.”
“Oh, yeah, and what are we having?”
“Roast, potatoes, and carrots. I just need fifteen minutes to bake us some biscuits.” I watch as her eyes widen in surprise.
“You cooked for me two nights in a row. I feel spoiled. Be careful, Ollie, I might end up making your place my new hangout,” she jokes.
I’m okay with that.
The thought surprises me, but I know it’s true. This woman and her bubbly personality are infectious, even to a grumpy, jaded man like myself.
When I pull into the driveway, I hit the button to raise the garage door. After pulling inside, I quickly close the door to ward off the cold weather. She’s cold, whether she wants to admit it or not, and I won’t be a contributor. “Stay put,” I tell her before reaching for my door handle.
“What?”
I turn back to her. “I’ll get your door.”
“I can get my own door.”
“I’m sure you can, but I want to do it.”
“Ollie, are you a closet romantic?”
“Just stay put,” I grumble and climb out of the SUV. I race around the front of the car and pull open her door, offering her my hand. “I hope you’re hungry.” I lead her to the house with her fingers entwined with mine. As soon as I push open the door that leads to the mudroom, which leads to the kitchen, the smell of dinner wafts through the air.
“If I wasn’t, I would be now. That smells amazing. What can I do to help?” she asks.
“Grab yourself a drink from the fridge and keep me company.”
“You want something?”
“Sure, a glass of tea. The glasses are to the left of the fridge.” I sneak around her, pull out a can of biscuits, and use it as an excuse to slide my hand along the small of her back. At this point, I’m like a man in the desert, desperate for a drink of water. Only my desperation is for the woman standing in my kitchen.
“Why marketing?” I ask once she’s seated and I have the biscuits in the oven. I stand on the opposite side of the island, trying to keep a little distance between us. I’m not sure I can be trusted. Last night proved that.
“I enjoy the field, and I’m a people person. It makes the interactions with other departments and outside resources easier for me. When I was in high school, I did some social media for my dad’s shop, as well as my uncle Orrin’s and my aunts Palmer and Scarlett’s photography studio. It was actually my aunt Palmer who suggested it. After I researched it a little, I knew it was the career for me.”
“You’re good at it.”
She smiles. “How do you know? We’ve been working together for a couple of weeks, and at the beginning of that, you scowled at everything I said.”
I scowl at her now, and she laughs, pointing her finger at me.
“It wasn’t you,” I say. “I didn’t want to plan the gala. It’s the holiday I’m not a fan of.”
“And now?”
“Still not a fan,” I admit.
“Come on. Think about all the fun you had growing up. I know you miss it.”
“We did have fun, but those parties included someone from my past. Someone who will never be a part of my future. It’s hard to see the good anymore. It’s all shadowed by the bad.”
“I’m sorry.” She tilts her head to the side to study me, and I can feel my skin burn from her attention. I turn to check the biscuits in the oven when I know damn good and well they’re not even close to being done yet.