Page 3 of Dad Bod Snow Job

“It could be.” My heart pounds as his gaze lifts to mine. “With the right opportunity.”

My pen scratches across the paper while Nico studies inventory lists, his massive frame making the desk look like doll furniture. Everything about him is overwhelming—his height, presence, the way his eyes keep finding mine despite his attempts to focus on the paperwork.

Am I making a terrible mistake? How can I focus on saving his business when being near him scrambles my thoughts?

“Eight AM tomorrow.” He stands as I finish the last form, and the office shrinks further. “Dress warm. The mountain's unforgiving in December.”

“Will do. Don’t worry about me.” I rise too quickly, my boot catching on the chair leg. I pitch forward with a squeak.

Nico moves faster than a man his size should. His hands catch my waist, steadying me against his chest. Time freezes. His heart thunders against my palms. My fingers curl into his flannel shirt without permission.

“Sorry!” I straighten but don't step back. I can't with the chair behind me and Nico's warmth flooding my senses. “I swear I'm usually more coordinated than this. That's a lie. I'm always this clumsy. Good thing you're solid as a tree trunk.”

“Be careful.” His hands linger at my waist for a heartbeat too long before dropping away. The loss hits like a cold wind. “Working here is dangerous enough without?—”

“Without me tripping over my own feet?” His gruff concern wraps around me like a blanket. “I'll try not to face-plant into any Christmas trees.”

He makes a sound that might be a laugh—or possibly indigestion—it's hard to tell with the grumpy lumberjack type.

Not that I mind. A girl doesn't wear a dress that makes her look like a candy cane unless she's hoping to catch someone's attention.

I edge toward the door before I do something stupid like lean into him again.

“Wait.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You should probably see the operation before tomorrow. If you still want the job after the tour.”

My pulse skips. “Lead the way, boss.”

His jaw tightens at the word “boss,” but he gestures for me to precede him. “Bundle up. Most of it's outside.”

I dig mittens from my purse, hyperaware of his presence, as he shrugs into a work coat that makes his shoulders look even broader. My phone weighs heavy in my pocket. The farm's nonexistent social media presence begs for attention, but something tells me Nico Bennett needs more time before listening to my marketing plans.

Baby steps, Holly. Win him over first.

Chapter 2

Nico

Holly Carter raises her phone, framing the giant spruce against the winter sky. Sunlight catches her hair, turning it to fire. My fingers itch to brush away the snowflakes settling on those red waves. The shade is stirring memories of a twelve-year-old girl with braces and braids, trailing behind her big sister, hiding behind books, and stealing glances at me.

The candy cane dress peeks out under her coat, a splash of Christmas cheer against winter white. There is no trace of the shy kid anymore. She moves with confidence and pulls at something in my chest.

“This tree must be at least fifty years old.” She circles the trunk, boots crunching in fresh snow. “Imagine the stories it could tell.”

“Sixty-three. My grandfather planted it the year he bought the land.”

She beams up at me. Christ. No one should look that appealing with a bright red nose and mittened hands. The years between us shrink and stretch with every smile—too many when I think about her age, not enough when she looks at me like that.

“That's exactly the kind of story your customers would love! Mind if I film a quick video?”

Before I can respond, she's pointing her phone at me. “Tell me about your grandfather.”

“I don't do social media.” The words come out harsher than intended. The bank's latest letter burns in my back pocket, a reminder that old-fashioned methods might not be enough anymore.

“Good thing I do, then.” She lowers the phone, but that sunshine smile doesn't dim. Nothing like Sarah's calculated charm—Holly's warmth reaches her eyes. “Because this place? It's magic. And people should know about it.”

I want to argue. Social media won't fix broken equipment or pay the bank loans. But she's already moving down the path, phone raised to capture the snow-laden branches. My heart kicks against my ribs as her boot hits an icy patch.

“Careful.” I catch up in two strides, my hand finding her elbow. Her small frame fits against my side like she was made for me. Dangerous thinking. “Path gets treacherous here.”

---