Chapter 21
Holly
“Holly.” His voice sounds rough as he clears his throat. “How’s… how’s the cleanup going?”
“Slow,” I sigh, so happy inside to hear his voice. “But I’m getting it done. And Charlie’s coming by later with industrial fans. We’ll get it dried out.” I pause. “Thank you. Again. For last night. For… everything.”
Everything. The word holds the weight of the flood, the shared grief, the mind-blowing sex.
“Anytime,” he says. “Listen, Holly… would you like to go to dinner with me tonight? My mom will have Tabby. Unless you’re too busy. With all the cleaning up and drying out…” He finally pauses so I can answer him.
“Yes,” I say, feeling a warmth in my chest.
“Yes?” he echoes.
“Yes, Denton.” I repeat, smiling. “Dinner sounds perfect.”
“Great,” he says, relief evident in his voice. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Seven,” I confirm. “I’ll try to not smell like wet cardboard.”
He chuckles and we hang up.
I feel my heart doing all the things: somersaults, Snoopy dancing and backflips. I have a proper date with Denton Blake. Oh my god…
Hours later, after way too much cleaning, sifting and sorting, I smooth down the front of my simple, dark green wrap dress – chosen after far too much deliberation and one frantic video consultation with Charlie (“Green! Brings out your eyes! Yes!”).
My fingers brush the small, snowflake-shaped pendant resting against my collarbone. A last-minute addition for luck. Or maybe just a reminder of the snowbound magic that started this.
Headlights cut through the dusky street and the sleek, dark Range Rover glides to a stop at the curb.
The driver’s side door opens, and Denton gets out.
He’s wearing dark trousers and a charcoal gray sweater that hugs his powerful shoulders, making him look devastatingly handsome. My breath catches.
As I walk out to meet him, he rounds the front of the SUV. A slow, genuine smile touches his lips – the kind that still feels rare and precious, like a perfectly shaped snowflake.
It transforms the usual stern lines of his face, softening the angles, warming those gray eyes of his. The butterflies in my stomach are now in full flight.
“Hey,” he says. His eyes sweep over me, appreciative and intense. “You look… incredible.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr. Blake.”
He reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. The touch is light, deliberate, sending a jolt of awareness through me. “Ready?”
Ready? To step into unknown territory with him? To see where this fragile thing between us leads? My stomach flips again, but it’s not just nerves this time. It’s anticipation and hope.
“Absolutely.”
He opens the passenger door for me, his hand resting briefly on the small of my back as I slide in. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels possessive.
The interior is warm, smelling faintly of leather. He climbs in beside me, the space suddenly feeling very small.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he pulls away from the curb, navigating the snowy streets with familiar ease.
“Place called Luca’s,” he says, glancing over. “Quiet. Good pasta. They know me, so we shouldn’t get bothered.” He pauses, his hand resting on the gearshift. “Is that okay?”
“Perfect,” I breathe, meaning it. “Quiet sounds amazing.”
Luca’s is tucked away on a side street, its warm, golden light spilling onto the snowy sidewalk. Inside, it’s all low lighting, exposed brick, and the rich, comforting aroma of garlic, tomatoes, and baking bread. Soft music plays in the background.
Denton gives a brief nod to the ma?tre d’, who leads us to a secluded booth in the back corner, away from the handful of other diners.
We settle in, the leather seat soft beneath me. Denton shrugs out of his coat. My fingers itch to trace the lines of his broad chest again. Instead, I try to focus on the menu.
“What looks good?” he asks.
You. I clear my throat, forcing my eyes to focus on the laminated page. “Everything. Maybe the mushroom ravioli?”
He nods. “Solid choice. I’m going for the osso buco.” He sets his menu down, his gaze steady on me. “How’s the bakery?”
I appreciate him asking. “Wet,” I admit with a wry smile.
“But drying. Charlie brought the huge fans that sound like jet engines, and they’re working.
The floor’s a lot better but the drywall needs patching…
but we’ll get there. Thank you so much again for your help.
I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up. ”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Anytime. Seriously, Holly. Whatever you need.” He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine where it rests beside my water glass.
“Seeing you fight for that place… it was…” He searches for the word, his thumb tracing idle circles on the back of my hand. “Inspiring.”
Warmth blooms in my chest. Coming from him, the disciplined athlete who commands the ice, it feels like high praise. “It’s home,” I say simply, turning my hand under his to lace our fingers together.
He nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. He gets it. The deep-rooted need for a place to belong, to create.
Our food arrives – steaming plates of fragrant pasta and tender braised meat – breaking the moment but not the connection.
We talk easily as we eat – about Tabby’s latest obsession with building elaborate snow forts (apparently Denton is now an expert snow-brick architect), about Charlie’s disastrous attempt at making croissants (“They resembled hockey pucks,” I confide, making him laugh), about the ridiculous holiday sweater one of his teammates wore to practice (“It had light-up reindeer antlers. And a sound chip.”).
The conversation flows, punctuated by shared smiles and the comfortable silence that settles between people who don’t need to fill every space with noise.
He asks about my favorite Christmas traditions growing up. I tell him about my grandmother’s legendary gingerbread house competitions, the craziness of decorating with my three older brothers, the way my dad always pretended to be surprised by his gift of socks every year.
He listens, really listens, a small smile playing on his lips. He shares a little about Christmases with Sarah – quieter affairs, focused on family, the way she’d make Tabby’s eyes light up with the simplest things.
It’s not heavy. It’s just… part of his story. Shared naturally, without the weight of the past pressing down. Healing for him, I realize.
By the time the waiter clears our plates and brings tiny cups of rich, dark espresso, the nervous butterflies are long gone. Replaced by a sense of rightness. This isn’t just a date. It’s a solid beginning.
He pays the check, his hand returning to mine as we stand to leave. Outside, the cold air is a shock after the restaurant’s warmth, but his hand is warm around mine. He walks me back to the SUV, opens my door. As I slide in, he leans in, his face close to mine in the dim interior light.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my cheek. “For coming with me.”
“Thank you,” I whisper back, my heart pounding. “For… everything.”
He smiles, that rare, full smile that still makes my breath catch. Then he presses a soft, lingering kiss to my lips. “Big day tomorrow.”
“Big day?” I ask, confused, as he pulls back and shuts my door.
He just winks, rounding the SUV. Big day? What big day? The question buzzes in my head all the way back to the bakery, a pleasant mystery layered over the warm glow of the evening.
He walks me to my door, kisses me goodnight again – slower, deeper this time, leaving me breathless and wanting more – and waits until I’m safely inside before driving away.
The “big day” arrives with a phone call just after noon. I’m elbow-deep in a vat of icing, attempting to pipe delicate snowflakes onto gingerbread stars, when my phone buzzes. Denton’s name lights up the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear, trying not to get blue icing on it.
“Hi.” His voice is warm, laced with an undercurrent of excitement I haven’t heard before. “Are you free this afternoon? Say… around three?”
I glance around the bakery. Charlie is manning the front, handling the post-lunch rush with her usual cheerful efficiency. “I think I can manage to escape. What’s up?”
A low chuckle. “We need your expertise.”
“My expertise? Unless it involves convincing fondant not to crack, I’m not sure…”
“Tree,” he says simply. The word hangs in the air, loaded with meaning. “Tabby says it’s time. And apparently, we require professional guidance to avoid… and I quote… ‘a horrible tree disaster’.”
A Christmas tree. The request, delivered with such matter-of-factness, steals my breath.
This isn’t just picking out a tree. This is him opening the door.
Letting the holiday – the one he hates, the one steeped in painful memories – back into his life.
Into their lives. For Tabby, yes. But also… for himself.
“Professional guidance, huh?” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady around the sudden lump in my throat. “Well, I do have extensive experience in avoiding boring tree disasters. It’s kind of my superpower.”
“Good,” he says, the warmth in his voice deepening. “We’ll pick you up. Three o’clock. Tabby requests that you wear something magical and sparkly.”
He hangs up. I stand there, phone still pressed to my ear.
He’s getting a Christmas tree. And he wants me there. The warmth from last night’s date ignites into a full-blown inferno of joy in my chest. This feels monumental.
At three o’clock sharp, the Range Rover appears. I have on jeans and a sparkly pink sweater, as requested.
Tabby is in her booster seat, her face pressed against the window, beaming. “Holly! Holly! We’re getting a TREE! A BIG one! Daddy said so! And I LOVE that sweater!”
Denton gets out, smiling at her enthusiasm. He’s dressed in jeans and a navy sweater. He looks relaxed. Happy. He opens my door. “Ready for Operation Christmas Tree?”