Page 17 of Merry with a Tycoon

As we walk to his car, I can’t help but steal glances at him. There’s something about seeing Preston like this—relaxed, a bit less guarded—that makes my heart race. He’s not flashy, but there’s an undeniable air of quiet confidence about him that’s incredibly attractive.

We reach his car, a sleek, midnight blue Aston Martin that probably costs more than my shop’s yearly revenue. Preston’s fingers graze my lower back as he opens the car door. My breath catches, a shiver racing up my spine. Goosebumps prickle across my skin, and for a moment, the world narrows to that single point of contact.

Sliding into the leather seat, I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. This is just dinner, I remind myself. But as Preston gets in and flashes me a smile that’s equal parts charming and genuine, I know I’m in trouble.

My heart definitely is.

Preston takes me to Le Mer, an exclusive restaurant in Love Beach where the menu doesn’t list prices and the wine list goes on for pages. It’s beautiful, elegant, and so far out of my usual experience that it’s like I’ve stepped into another world.

There’s also a fork that has an extra tine and I’m afraid to ask what it’s for.

Across the table, Preston is telling me about his favorite Christmas tradition, a wistful smile playing on his lips. “Every year, without fail, my father would dress up as Santa for the family Christmas party. Back then, the parties were small, just the family, so unlike the holiday parties Mother holds these days,” he says, his gaze distant. “Anyway, Mother would always insist that we could hire a hundred professional Santas if we wanted, but Father wouldn’t hear of it. He loved being Santa and Brogan and I loved it. Mother did, too, secretly. She’d even dress as Mrs. Claus.”

“Your father sounds like an amazing man.”

“He was,” Preston says. “What about you, Crystal? What’s your favorite holiday tradition?”

I could tell him that my parents were always fighting about one thing or another and so I spent most of my holidays with Willy’s family. I probably know more about their Filipinoholiday traditions than any other. They even had a stocking just for me hanging from their mantelpiece.

“Probably the Noche Buena feast with Willy’s family,” I say, a warm smile spreading across my face. “They always made me feel like I was part of their family. We’d stay up until midnight on Christmas Eve, sharing this amazing spread of Filipino dishes. Willy’s mom makes the best bibingka, this coconut rice cake that’s just heavenly. It became my home away from home during the holidays.”

“I remember those things,” Preston exclaims. “They’re white with cheese on top and served in banana leaves, right? They used to send a tray to the house and Brogan would sneak a few pieces into his room.”

I laugh. “Yes, that’s the one.”

Just then, the server arrives with the main course. With a flourish, he presents our dishes: “Pan-seared Chilean sea bass with saffron beurre blanc, served on a bed of truffle-infused risotto and garnished with micro herbs and edible flowers.”

As the server pours a crisp white wine to accompany the dish, I feel somewhat overwhelmed by the opulence. Yet, as I meet Preston’s eyes across the table, his warm smile grounds me, reminding me that beyond all this luxury, we’re just two people enjoying a meal together.

“Is everything alright?” he asks.

I smile. “Everything’s perfect. It’s just very different from my usual Friday night.”

“And what does a usual Friday night look like for you?”

“Oh, you know,” I say, twirling my wine glass. “Takeout, maybe a movie. Sometimes I’ll go wild and hit up the mini-golf course with a friend.”

Preston’s eyebrows rise. “Mini-golf?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never played mini-golf,” I tease.

He looks almost sheepish. “I can’t say that I have.”

An idea strikes me, and before I can second-guess myself, I blurt out, “Want to try it?”

Preston blinks, clearly taken aback. “Now?”

“Why not?” I challenge, feeling suddenly daring. “Unless you’re afraid of a little competition?”

A slow grin spreads across his face, and my heart does a little flip. “Are you suggesting we ditch this fine establishment for a round of miniature golf?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting, Mr. Hollister. At least, after dessert,” I say, laughing. “So what do you say? Are you game?”

Thirty minutes later, we’re standing at the first hole of Pirate’s Cove Mini Golf, with Preston looking intrigued by the course laid out before us.

“Okay,” I say, handing him a putter. “The goal is to get the ball into the hole in as few strokes as possible. And try not to take it too seriously.”

Preston eyes the course dubiously. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

---