Page 8 of Booked for the Holidays
Her teeth catch her bottom lip. “Because you’re so buttoned up. But then you’ve got this secret little reminder that life’s messy, and you’re okay with it.”
I huff a laugh, taking the tasting cup from her hand. “Secret’s out, I guess.”
She laughs, and for a second it’s just us—the holiday chaos outside, the cold air waiting when we leave, none of it matters. Just her freckles, her warmth, and a hint of something that feels dangerously like home.
She nudges my side. “So…the CFO has a secret chaotic side.”
I shrug. “Maybe. If the spreadsheets behave.”
“Oh, that’s why you’d open a wine bar.” She grins, putting it together. “To lean into the chaos.”
I tilt my head, pretending to think. “Or maybe I’d open a wine bar so certain girls could come drink mulled wine and boss me around.”
She laughs, eyes catching on a display by the counter—cheap novelty pins and keychains. She plucks one up and holds it between two fingers, turning back to me with a sly grin.
“Here.” She lifts it for me to see—a little red pin withSpice It Upin bold white letters. “This is so you.”
I arch a brow. “Oh yeah?”
“A reminder,” she says, faux serious, “for when you get too CFO about life.”
I huff a laugh and roll my eyes. “You think I need reminding to be chaotic?”
She flashes a wicked smile. “Constantly.”
She pretends to toss it into the basket with the bottles, but I’m already turning to help the clerk bag the wine and don’t see what she does with it next.
When I glance back, her hands are empty. I shake my head at her, and she shrugs innocently, like it was just a joke.
We load the bags into the back, the sun already starting to dip behind the line of pines that guard the road back to her parents’house. She slides into the passenger seat, hugging her coat tighter, cheeks pink from the cold and the whiskey cider.
By the time I drop into the driver’s seat, the radio kicks on. The mountain station is static for a moment, then a blast of old holiday pop. Wham!’s “Last Christmas.” I reach to switch it off, but Juniper practically lunges over the console to slap my hand away.
“Don’t you dare!” she gasps, half-laughing, half-scandalized. Her palm lands warm on my wrist.
“Wham!?” I tilt my head, grinning at her outrage. “Of all the classics, you choose this?”
She levels me with a look, like I’ve just insulted the queen. “It’s iconic,” she insists. “It’s heartbreak and hope and drama. Also, that video? Pure eighties chaos. George Michael in a holiday sweater? Top-tier Christmas content.”
Her eyes light up. “Plus, it’s set at a wintry mountain cabin. I mean, that’s basically Cedar Hollow, right? Snow, ski lifts, pine trees…it’s cozy and cold and perfect.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head as I pull out onto Founders Street. “I stand by it. "Fairytale of New York" is better.”
She gasps. “Oh my god. That song is so depressing!”
“It’s honest.”
“Grinch.” She flicks my arm playfully.
I shoot her a sideways look. “You know, I never took you for a cheesy Christmas pop girl.”
She crosses her arms, mock-offended, then breaks into a grin. “You don’t know me at all, Liam Hargrove.”
No. I don’t. But god, I want to.
The song croons on, and Juniper’s quiet humming weaves around the chorus like she’s done this a thousand times.
When the last note fades out, the silence hits warmer than before.
