Page 16 of Noel
If I’d known what I was signing up for when Connor said “personal favor,” I might’ve asked for combat pay.
Because Holly Winters, in daylight, is a goddamn problem.
She’s sitting next to me in the SUV, the seatbelt cutting a clean line across that red coat, skirt hugging curves that make concentrating on traffic a full-contact sport.
She smells like sugar cookies and fresh coffee—soft, warm, lethal.
I told her I’d drive.
She’d tried to argue.
But that didn’t last long.
“City parking is a nightmare,”I’d said.“You handle the flowers.I’ll handle getting us in and out of there alive.”
Now she’s scrolling through her planner app, completely oblivious to the double takes she’s drawing at every stoplight.
The cabbie in the next lane nearly rear-ended someone trying to look at her reflection in my window.
She doesn’t even notice.
And that’s what kills me most,she has no idea what she does to a room.
When we pull up in front ofPetal & Thorn, the high-end florist that’s doing the gala’s centerpieces, she pops her seatbelt and reaches for the door before I’ve even shifted into park.
“Wait,” I say, catching her wrist.“Let me check the street first.”
She blinks at me.“For what?Angry poinsettia smugglers?”
“Funny,” I mutter, scanning the sidewalk.“But humor me.”
She huffs but lets me go ahead.The December air hits hard when I step out—cold, sharp, tinted with the scent of pine from the shop’s window display.
I open her door and motion for her to proceed, keeping one hand near the small of her back as we head inside.
The bell above the door jingles, and the place explodes with color.Flowers everywhere—roses, evergreens, glittered pinecones, and some kind of artful tangle of silver branches that probably costs more than my truck.
“Ms.Winters!”a woman calls from behind the counter, her face lighting up.“You’re early!”
Holly smiles, bright and genuine, and it’s like someone turned on the sun in here.
“Couldn’t wait to see what you’ve been working on, Sheila,” she says warmly.“The store looks simply incredible!”
Every head in the shop turns toward her voice.I’m not kidding—every single one.
The delivery guy freezes mid-step, a woman arranging hydrangeas straightens up, and even the cashier stops typing.
All eyes, right on her.
Holly draws everyone’s attention—just like tinsel, I muse with a sigh.
She still has no idea.
While she leans over to smell a bouquet, chatting about table arrangements and budget caps, I stay a few feet behind, watching.
Not her—though I did glance at her gorgeous peach of an ass in that skirt (hey, I’m a man, not a saint)—I take in the entire room.
Two men by the register can’t stop staring.
