Page 1 of My Sweetart Holidate

1

Charlotte

Bundles of red and pink heart-shaped balloons dance in the unseasonably warmishbreeze as I slowly roll my car up the steep driveway toward the Caribou Creek Lodge entrance. Dozens of them bounce against the cedar logs they’re tethered to, proclaiming a theme of hopefulness and love. It’s a good sign. A sign that love is finally on the horizon for me.

My death grip on the steering wheel for the past hundred and fifty miles has turned my knuckles white. I force my aching fingers to relax, unable to tear my gaze away from the cheerful helium-filled hearts.

Thishasto work.

My history with blind dates is laughable at best. Horrifying at its worst. But this time will be different. This time, the famous Matchmaker Maggie Parsons has stepped into my life like a desperately needed miracle. She’s chosenmeas one of eight lucky women to participate in her Alaskan Valentine’s Day event. What are the odds that she’d pick my state this year?Andthat it’s within driving distance?

Whoever my blind date is, he’s been vetted and chosen based on dozens of unique criteria. No more awkward setups from well-meaning co-workers, or insufferable double dates to appease college friends. No more dodging the nice but clingy men Great-Aunt Doris has been sending my way in droves. Fairbanks is just too small of a town to avoid them after the horrifying meet and greets.

Thisblind date could truly bethe one.

It’s time. My time.

A flash of green flannel and bright pink manages to catch the corner of my eye, ripping me from daydreams of toe-curling first kisses. I scream, stomping a booted foot down on my brake pedal just as a clearly oblivious man strides past the corner of my bumper. My heavy purse catapults from the passenger seat, dropping to the floor with a thud. Before I can think about retrieving it, a symphony of sugary thumps draws my attention to the hood of the car.

Red frosted cookies drop like hail.

Heart shaped cookies.

Splitting in two.

Nota good sign.

The man glares through my crumb-covered windshield. As if it’s all my fault.

“Look buddy,” I mutter from the safety of my car. “It was an accident. No need to give me the death glare. I didn’t run over kittens.”

I shift my car into park, shove my door open, and launch myself out to repeat the words I just rehearsed—stupid anxiety—only to be yanked back inside like a yo-yo that unknowingly reached the end of its string. The seat belt strangles my neck, no doubt leaving a mark, and my elbow rudely bumps the horn.

The grumpy man just stands there and stares, gripping a battered pink box against his chest.

I glare back, the heat of my embarrassment fusing with an equal measure of annoyance.Cut me some slack—

But something in my body softens as my glare sweeps over him, accusation and apology dying in my throat.

Damn.

His biceps. And those broad shoulders. One good flex and he’d Hulk right out of his flannel shirt.

I swallow, but my mouth is suddenly dry with want, and I’m angry all over again. Where is his coat? Those muscles shouldn’t even be on display. It’s February. In Alaska.

Dear Lord, he’s tall. Almost too tall for me to see the green eyes shooting fire beams at me unless I lean against the steering wheel. Not that it matters. Three of the cookies managed to land, frosting side down, on my windshield. The still-hot glass is melting the red frosting, smearing a perfect outline of his broad shoulders as the cookies slide off.

“There’s no cell service here,” he grumbles loudly, drawing me back to reality.

I carefully unbuckle and step out of the car, refusing to let this irritable guest ruin my weekend. “I wasn’tonmy phone.”

“Bad driving comes naturally to you then?”

“Look, I’m sorry about the cookies.” The words come out through gritted teeth. Each time I try to meet his glare head-on, I chicken out and look away. It’s unsettling how…sexyit is. How one barely connected glance is making me curious about what he’s hiding beneath the flannel shirt. Ishouldwant to throw a cookie—or ten—at him. God, I need to get laid almost as badly as I need a date for my cousin’s wedding next month.

That’s the reason you’re here, Charlie. Get it together.

“I’ll pay you for the cookies,” I offer, eager to be rid of him.

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