Page 15 of Dad Bod Snow Job

Her smile could melt the snow outside. “Tonight, then.”

The bank notice mocks me from my desk, the amount burning into my skull. Fifteen thousand dollars. Equipment loans don't care that we're heading into our busiest season. Don't care that my crew's counting on holiday bonuses.

Fat snowflakes drift past the yellow security light outside my office window, adding another layer to the fresh powder coating the lot. Only two cars remain—mine and a little red Honda, practically buried in snow.

My fingers crumple the paperwork. Holly shouldn’t be working this late to get my attention. And she should certainly not be driving home in this weather.

One week at Bennett's, and everything's different. The shop runs like clockwork. Customers linger and spend more. Even Bear, my trusty wingman, turns into a lovesick puppy around her.

I'm right there with him, resisting Holly’s charms but failing miserably.

Six o'clock. Right on time, she breezes in wearing my coat, laptop tucked under one arm.

“Brought backup.” She sets down two steaming mugs. “Peppermint hot chocolate.”

“Bribing me with sugar?”

“Is it working?”

She claims the chair across from me, spreading out her phone and notebook covered in precise writing. The office walls close in—they always do when she's here.

“Let's see these numbers you're so excited about.”

She straightens, all business now. “Silver Pines is your main competition, right? The artificial tree place?”

“Them and the Madison Mall setup.” My teeth grind. “Mass-produced garbage at prices we can't match.”

“But that's exactly it.” She taps her notebook, eyes bright. “They can't match what you offer. The experience. The expertise?—”

“The overhead?” The bank notice burns in my drawer.

“No.” That determined chin lifts. “They also don't have three generations of knowledge about tree cultivation. Or a crew that treats customers like family. Or...” Her cheeks flush. “Or an owner who spends an hour helping a kid pick the perfect Christmas treeand then teaches him how to care for it.”

The room suddenly feels ten degrees warmer. “You filmed that?”

“Marketing gold.” Her eyes dance. “But it's real. That's what people want. Authenticity. Tradition.”

She's young enough to navigate TikTok while I think hashtags come with eggs. But her passion hooks me. “Social media's the answer?”

Holly walks me through projections and strategies. It's Greek to me, but the way she talks about Bennett's—like it's precious, worth saving—is what gets me.

“Pre-orders could cover the equipment loan repayments.” She points to her screen. “With a proper tracking system?—”

“How'd you know about the loans?”

Pink stains her cheeks. “Same way I know you cover Matt's shifts since his baby came early. That you let the Wilsons delay payment on account of Mr. Wilson losing his job.” Her gaze holds mine. “I notice things.”

The words hit somewhere beneath my ribs.

“Change is hard. Sometimes, not changing is harder.” Her voice softens. “Let me help, Nico. Please?”

That “please” should come with a warning label.

I hear myself say. “Show me what you can do.”

Chapter 7

Nico

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