Page 1 of Dad Bod Snow Job

Chapter 1

Holly

“Rejected again?” Mrs. Jenkins slides a fresh mug of peppermint hot chocolate beside my crumpled resume. “Their loss, honey. Though if you're looking for work...”

She leans over the diner counter, voice dropping to a staged whisper reserved for Grade A gossip. “Bennett's Tree Farm is hemorrhaging staff. The third-generation business might not make it to Christmas.”

My hand freezes mid-stir, peppermint candy cane dissolving forgotten in my mug. After three weeks of rejection letters and dwindling savings, this could be my chance. “Nico Bennett's place?”

“Poor man's struggling. Equipment's breaking down, can't keep workers, and these big box stores selling plastic trees?” She clucks her tongue. “Takes more than muscles and good looks to run a business these days.”

Nico Bennett. The man who'd made my awkward pre-teen years bearable. My sister's ex-boyfriend would slip me hot chocolate and teach me the names of different evergreens, but that was before things went sour with Sarah.

My marketing brain whirs to life. Small business, established customer base, untapped digital markets…

“Social media campaigns could triple his holiday sales.” I pull up Instagram on my phone. Zero posts. Not even a website. “Only a basic online ordering system, no delivery service...”

“Sounds fancy.” Mrs. Jenkins winks. “But that boy needs help now. Two employees quit right after Thanksgiving.”

I slap cash on the diner counter to cover my bill and tip, sweep my resume into my purse, and bolt home to slip into my lucky candy cane sweater dress. The dress might be overkill for selling Christmas trees, but looking the part could convince Nico to hire me.

My boots crunch through fresh snow as I climb the winding path to Bennett's. Pine and balsam fill my lungs, flooding me with memories. God, I'd forgotten this—real air, room to breathe, friendly faces nodding hello.

After what happened last month... Well, some wake-up calls come with flashing lights and sirens. Sometimes, they send you running home to start over.

The frosted window catches my reflection, and for once, I don't look away. The candy cane-striped sweater dress skims my curves like it was made for me.

Red hair tumbles past my shoulders, wild and free, staging a rebellion. No more drowning in shapeless sweaters—this body's done playing hide and seek. I'm done hiding who I am. The mobile florist business plan on my laptop proves that.

The door flies open. My heart stops as Nico Bennett fills the doorframe, all six-plus feet of flannel-clad mountain man towering over me.

His dark hair is a mess, longer than I remember, and the silver flecks in his beard have no business looking that good. His winter-blue eyes widen with recognition, then narrow as he studies my face.

“Holly?” His voice roughens like whiskey over woodsmoke. “Holly Carter?”

My stomach flips. Ten years since the messy breakup with Sarah sent him retreating into his mountain man solitude. Will he see me as my own person now or just another Carter woman ready to complicate his life?

“Hi, Nico.” The words catch in my throat as his grip tightens on the door frame, knuckles white against weathered wood.

“What brings you back to Riley's Ridge?”

“Mrs. Jenkins mentioned you might need holiday help.” I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of confidence I can muster.

He steps back, a silent invitation to enter. The movement brings him closer, his broad frame making the doorway shrink. Heat radiates off him as I slip past, my shoulder barely brushing his chest.

The shop interior stops me in my tracks. Rustic would be a kind description. Bare wooden walls stretch upward, lonely strings of lights draped like sad afterthoughts. Noble firs and blue spruces prop against every available surface, while two men in neon safety vests wrestle a massive fir through the back door.

Nico kicks a box of ornaments from my path. “Why leave the city?” His gruff question comes with another protective gesture as he guides me around a precarious stack of wreaths, his hand hovering near my elbow. “Thought all you Carter women were corporate types.”

“For heaven's sake, this tree is asymmetrical!”

A woman in designer boots, whose tone could strip paint, taps an impatient rhythm against the wood floor, pointing at a Douglas fir.

“Ma'am, I understand your concerns—” Nico strides toward her, his shoulders bunching beneath his flannel shirt. “Let me show you another option.”

“I've already looked at six trees!” The customer's voice rises another octave. “And each one has been worse than the last. Do you even know what you're doing?”

Three years of handling nightmare clients kick in before I can overthink it. “Excuse me,” I step forward. “Sorry to interrupt. You're looking for a statement piece. Something that will wow the neighbors?”

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