Page 49 of Mistletoe Face Off

It's every time, but I'm not going to point out that little fact.

“Harry’s here so I'm going to go now. You be good for your granny,” I tell Macy as she bounds over to me and I collect her in a hug.

“I will,” she says earnestly, and it occurs to me I should probably be asking Mom to be good for Macy.

“I love you to the moon and back, honey,” I say as I nuzzle her soft cheek. “I'll check on you when I get home.”

“Okay.” She wriggles to get out of my arms and as I place her back on the ground, there's a knock at the door.

Instantly, my belly clinches with nerves. “That'll be him,” I say.

“No time to change that dress,” Mom says.

“Not helping.”

“I want to see Harry!” Macy exclaims, bouncing down the hall, moving surprisingly fast considering her stiff plastic shoes.

Mom gives me a look, which I choose to ignore as I traipse after her, but she's already pulled the door open by the time I get there, and I’m met with Harrison Clarke, Date Night Version.

My breath catches as my eyes land on his, my journalist's eye for detail suddenly feeling like both a blessing and a curse. His tailored woolen coat hangs open, framing a body that's all long lines and muscles. A crisp white button-up shirt peeks out from under a navy V-neck sweater that makes his sea green eyes look impossibly bright. His hair is lightly tousled, as if he's run his hand through it nervously—and I wonder if he has. As he smiles back at me, there's a softness to his expression that tells me exactly how he feels about me.

After a beat, I realize I'm staring, and a blush creeps up my neck.

This is really happening. Our first date. No cameras, no fake arguments, just Harry and me.

The journalist in me may want to analyze him, but the woman in me? That part just wants to reach out and touch him, feel his arms around me as he murmurs sweet things in my ear.

“Hi,” he mouths at me before he crouches down in front of my daughter. “Hey, Macy. Or should I say, Princess Macy,” he says, and my heart gives a little squeeze at the soft side of this big, bulky man’s tenderness with my little girl.

“I am a princess. Granny gave me this tiara and these shoes. See?” Macy points at her feet jammed into the pink plastic shoes with fake diamonds the size of my thumbnail.

“You make a beautiful princess,” he tells her before he rises to his full impressive height. “And you must be the famousGranny who bestowed such a royal honor on Macy,” he says to my mother.

I watch as her tight expression relaxes into a beaming smile, her cheeks flushing with pleasure. “I am the granny, but you can call me Cindy,” she coos.

I roll my eyes. How easily my mother can be won over by a handsome man’s smile.

But then aren't I the kettle calling the pot black? Every little interaction between Harrison and Macy chips away at the fortress surrounding my heart, a fortress he’s been steadily breaking down since the day we saw one another at the Community Center.

As his lips curve into an easy smile, any reservations I had about going out with him tonight melt right away. I’m getting in deep with this man, and I’m excited for what’s to come.

Chapter Twelve

Harrison

Holly is standing in the hallway of her apartment in an evening dress, and as I look at her, it's like someone's knocked the wind right out of me. That black dress hugs every one of her gorgeous womanly curves, the V-neck dipping just low enough to make my imagination run to places it oughtn’t in front of her kid. Ithits above her knee, showing off legs that seem to go on forever, her feet in a pair of black patent leather high heels.

Sexy? Heck yes. But classy, too.

That about sums Holly up.

It's not just her who’s greeted me. Macy's here too, bouncing on her princess-shoe clad toes with excitement, her eyes wide. Behind her, is Cindy, who looks a lot like Holly, aka Granny, the giver of the princess gifts.

“Great to meet you, ma’am. I’m Harry,” I say, flashing her my smile. But if I'm honest, all my eyes want to do is return to looking at Holly in that dress.

Finally, I capture her gaze with mine. “Holly, you look—” I search for the right word. “Beautiful” seems too simple. “Gorgeous” doesn't even begin to cut it. Then my mind lands on a uniquely Christmas themed compliment and I blurt, “You look like all my Christmas wishes, wrapped up in one incredible package.”

Did those cheesy words really just fall from my mouth?

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