Page 3 of My Sweetart Holidate

I used to be that way too. Before the damn Dear John letter. But betrayal has a way of hardening a heart into stone.

“So…” Maggie says, hesitation heavy in her tone.

“What is it, Maggs?”

“Don’t hate me.”

“Whatisit?”

Maggie pulls back from the hug, fingers digging into my coat sleeves. Holding on for dear life. Probably to keep me from running— not that it would work. “I need another favor.”

“Andie’s cleaned out of baked goods until tomorrow. She’d chase me out with a big metal spatula if I showed up again.”

Maggie doesn’t laugh. “This favor’s a little bigger than that.”

I scrub a hand over my face, effectively breaking the death grip she has on my coat sleeve. I have a bad feeling about this. Damn full moon. I’d much rather face Bigfoot right now than whatever favor I’m about to get dragged into. I’m too tired for this shit. My only plan for this weekend was to drink a few beers, pass out in my recliner, and maybe chop some wood if I got bored. Not like I don’t have more than enough for this winter—and next. The most important part of this plan, however, was not leaving my cabin. Damn the feisty blonde.

“Spit it out, Maggs. I’m beat.”

“I need you to fill in for somebody.”

My tired brain doesn’t want to process what she’s saying. “What does that even mean?”

“One of the men didn’t show up. I can’t get a hold of him. I’ve called him like twenty times, but it keeps going straight to voicemail. I’m actually getting a little worried. He seemed so nice—”

I cut her off because I already know I won’t like this favor one bit. “And that’s my problem why?”

“It’smyproblem.” Dammit, Maggie’s eyes are shiny again. She looks as though she might burst into tears at any second. Fuck me. “One woman is sitting in the dining room, thinking her date stood her up.”

“He did.”

“Who do you think she’s going to blame for that?”

The impact of what she’s saying hits me hard enough to rock me in my boots. No.Fuck no.I’m not doing this.

“Maggie, you can’t ask me to—”

“Please?” she begs in that tiny, scared voice that reminds me of when we were kids. Specifically of a cold February night when our parents were in Anchorage and the power went out. I couldn’t get the generator to work and there was a wolf hanging around the wood pile. But this is different. This isn’t keeping my little sister from freezing to death. This is a fucking blind date with God only knows who.

“I’m notanyone’smatch. Won’t she figure that out in about two seconds?” I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. It’s those fucking unshed tears. They’re my kryptonite. This is a fucking disaster. I haven’t been on a date in over three years. I don’t dodatesanymore. The whole getting-to-know-you bullshit that’s all a lie. Just two people trying to impress each other by pretending to be people they’re not. Been there, done that. Never going back.

“Justonedate,” Maggie begs. “I’ll—I’ll figure something out for the rest of the event. With any luck bachelor number seven’s on a delayed flight right now. Just one dinner tonight, okay? You don’t have to pretend to be her perfect match. Just … be nice.”

“And if bachelor number seven doesn’t show up at all?”

“I’ll let you off the hook tomorrow. I’ll tell her you decided it wasn’t a match and bowed out.”

I look down at my appearance. The worn Carhartt coat, four shades lighter than when I bought it three winters ago, the wrinkled flannel shirt beneath it —shit, does it have a mustard stain on the pocket?— the stubborn dirt smudges clinging to my boots. “I’m not dressed for this, Maggs.”

“You’ll do fine.” She assesses me up and down. “Maybe stop by the restroom and tame that hair. Looks like you just got up from a nap.”

“Idid.” But Maggie isn’t listening as she drags me by the arm toward the restroom and practically shoves me inside. The door closes behind me, leaving me to face myself in the mirror.

To be honest, I’m not looking my best. My overgrown beard needs more than just a trim. I look like one of those rugged mountain men, and not in the good way women are always cooing about. More in the oh shit, he’s an axe-murderer and buries the bodies in the back forty kind of way.

Full moon, my ass. This really is a horror movie kind of night.

I crack a smile at that. Maybe my appearance will scare the woman away. I splash some water on my face, mostly to appease my sister.This date isn’t real. I’m just a fill-in. It’s just for tonight. Not like it can get any worse. Right?

---