Page 8 of Dad Bod Snow Job

"Stop looking at me like that. I'm being realistic." I lean back, crossing my arms. "Come on, look at her. She's young, beautiful,and smart as hell. Do you think someone like that stays in Riley's Ridge? Works at a struggling tree farm with a grumpy old man?"

Bear lets out a low growl, and I ruffle his fur, seeking comfort as much as giving it. "Guess I can't blame you, though. She has a way about her."

Snow drifts past my headlights in the pre-dawn darkness. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as Holly bounds out of her house, a wicker basket swinging from her arm. Bear's tail picks up a hopeful rhythm against the seat before she even reaches the truck.

"Good morning!" Holly climbs in, bringing a wave of vanilla and cinnamon with her, the wicker basket clutched to her chest. "I made muffins for breakfast."

I shift the truck into drive and pull away from the curb, my eyes fixed on the road as she rustles through her basket. "You didn't need to do that."

Bear stretches forward, nose twitching. "Yes, handsome boy. Special peanut butter ones for you."

"Nico?" Holly holds up a muffin in my peripheral vision. "They're still warm."

I lean forward, uncomfortably aware of the steering wheel pressing against my stomach. "I'm good, thanks. Trying to watch what I eat."

"Please. You can lift things that would break most men in half. Pretty sure one muffin won't hurt those impressive muscles of yours."

I focus on navigating the empty streets, ignoring how her casual compliment sends heat crawling up my neck. Holly's just being nice. That's all.

"Cranberry Orange or Blueberry?" she asks, waving a muffin under my nose.

The simple question catches me off guard. I don't remember the last time someone baked for me—probably my mother, a decade ago. "Either flavor is fine."

She breaks off a piece of muffin and presses the warm morsel to my lips. "Open up."

I open my mouth, hyper-aware of her closeness in the confined cab. Her fingertips barely graze my lips, but my brain short-circuits. The first taste hits–butter and berries and something else that reminds me of Sunday mornings from a lifetime ago.

"See?" Holly's soft voice is triumphant. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Something loosens in my chest, a tension I hadn't even realized existed. I roll my shoulders to shake off the unfamiliar feeling of being cared for.

"Fine," I grumble, but there's no heat in it. "One muffin. That's it."

Bear whines from the backseat, and Holly laughs, breaking his tension. "Don't worry, big guy. You're next."

I swallow hard, the spot where her fingers brushed my lip still tingling. Holly turns my carefully ordered world upside down, making everything wonderfully and terrifyingly alive.

It's like she threw open the curtains and let the sun pour in, warming places I thought had gone cold for good.

The drive passes in comfortable silence, though her presence beside me buzzes like electricity under my skin. Bear's contented sighs from the backseat match my mellowing mood. As we wind through town, the dark sky bleeds into dawn, Christmas lights twinkling in shop windows like leftover stars.

I park near our assigned spot, tension coiling at the sight of the early morning crowd. Holly leaps out, transforming from my quiet companion into Bennett's Tree Farm's secret weapon. Her boots crunch through the fresh snow as she surveys our spot. "This is perfect! Right by the entrance where everyone can see us."

The farm hands beat us here, muscling the big trees into perfect rows before sunrise. While I haul supplies from the truck bed, Holly studies the space like a general plotting strategy. Bear trots at her heels, positioning himself between her and passing strangers. His protective instincts mirror mine—my shoulders tense when someone walks too close to her.

A young couple approaches during my battle with the tree stand. The guy wears that familiar look—someone bracing for his wallet to take a hit. Usually, I'd nod an acknowledgment and let them browse, but Holly approaches with a friendly smile.

"Good morning! Are you looking for your first Christmas tree together?"

The woman clutches her partner's arm, face brightening. "How did you know?"

"Call it instinct." Holly winks, beckoning them closer. "Plus, you radiate that 'new home' glow. Here, feel these branches—" Shetrails her fingers through a fir's needles. "Feel how soft? Notice how evenly spaced they are. Perfect for showcasing ornaments."

I stack the remaining trees, stealing glances as Holly weaves her magic. She transforms selling Christmas trees into something personal, like sharing secrets with old friends. She reveals details I've overlooked, making me see my inventory through fresh eyes.

"The Balsam has this amazing citrusy scent," she's saying, crushing a needle between her fingers for them to smell. "But if you're worried about needle drop, the Nordmann holds them longer."

Her enthusiasm spreads like wildfire—even the guy's expression has shifted from resignation to interest. The couple share a knowing look, already envisioning their Christmas morning.

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