Page 67 of Yuletide Acres

“Yeah.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Sure thing.”

“What do you want for dinner, Sunshine?”

My jaw slackens, both at his pointed question and the term of endearment. Thankfully, I recover quickly. “I have clients until seven, so I’ll just grab something here.”

“Nah, I’ll think of something. Dinner will be waiting for you.” With that last statement, he waves and strolls out the door.

“He’s quite the catch. Every woman has their eye on him, even the married ones. Especially the married ones,” Mrs. Jones chuckles.

“I can’t blame them.”

“The rumor was that he’d sworn off marriage and relationships. I’m glad to see that isn’t the case.”

Her words knock down my high. “No, it is the case. I just understand and respect those boundaries. What other choice do I have?” With a final sigh, I lead her into the back, the truth of the situation weighing on me like a ton of bricks.

* * *

“How do some people unpack in a day? I swear, it looks like a bomb has gone off in here,” I mutter, staring at the myriad of boxes and wrapping paper littering the floor. Thankfully, there are enough spare rooms that the carnage is hidden from public view.

The bells peal above the door. Damn, I forgot to lock the door. “Just a second. I apologize, we’re closed.”

When I poke through the curtain, I smile. There, with Paddington on a leash, stands Marissa, her father a few feet behind her.

“Well, hello. Aren’t you two—three—a surprise?”

“It’s dinnertime. Are you hungry?”

I nod, tossing a biscuit in Paddington’s direction. “I’m starving. Did you eat?”

Marissa shakes her head. “We came to get you.”

“Oh.” I stand, my face scrunched in confusion. “I was going back to the cabin tonight.”

“No, you’re not,” Dylan interjects, flipping the door to locked. “You’re safer here in town. With us.”

“I appreciate that, but I hate to be an imposition.”

“You’re not. See? All settled.” Dylan closes the distance between us, his mouth slanting over mine to steal a kiss.

“Did you make your Christmas list, Poppy?” Marissa chimes in.

“No, I can’t say that I have. Did you?”

Marissa nods, pulling it from her pocket and handing it to me. “You think Santa can fill all those wishes?”

I scan the list, my gaze catching on one particular entry at the bottom in bold crayon. “I’m sure he can try, but the last one might be tricky.”

“Why? You’re here.”

“What’s the last one?” Dylan inquires, peering over my shoulder.

“I asked Santa to send you a wife, Dad. He sent Poppy. You need a wife.”

My face flames at the little girl’s assumption, and I blurt out the first thing that pops into my brain. “He doesn’t believe in marriage.”

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