Chapter 3 #3
I started again, faster this time, one hand gripping the toy and the other clenching the sheets.
I let the fantasy spiral once more: Holly taunting me, letting me get close, and then cruelly backing off.
I imagined her breath on my ear, the way she’d say, “Not yet,” as she gripped me hard at the base.
Every nerve ending in my body screamed, and I couldn’t stop shaking. Every part of me was pleading for release, but I held out, just barely, until it hurt.
I didn’t remember deciding to let go; I just did. I pressed the toy down, my hips snapping involuntarily, and came so hard I saw fireworks behind my eyes. The world contracted to one single, bright point of sensation.
I lay there, heart racing, the world coming back into focus one sensation at a time: the sweat on my chest, the faint burn in my wrist, the sharpness of my breathing in the quiet room.
I reached for the towel, wiped myself off, and tossed it onto the floor.
I felt raw, but also calm in a way I never managed except for in these moments.
I closed my eyes and tried to picture Holly again. Not the imaginary seductress, but the real Holly.
The one who was a 98 percent match.
I still couldn’t believe it.
I sat up, the room tilting slightly, and capped the lube. I pushed to my feet and walked twenty feet to my bathroom, rinsing my Fleshlight in the sink and setting it to dry on a hand towel.
I avoided looking in the mirror as I stepped into the shower.
By five, the sky had softened from black to dark lavender. My body was exhausted, but my mind felt electric, rewiring itself around a single word: Possibility.
When the first pale streaks of dawn crept across the sky, I poured out the cold dregs of last night’s coffee into the kitchen sink.
I’d made a decision standing under the scalding water, and now, hours later, it felt both inevitable and terrifying.
Tomorrow—no, today—I would go see her.
I would be brave enough to stand in front of the woman I couldn’t stop thinking about and attempt a normal conversation.
Nate would be proud.
I hoped Holly would be patient.
The problem with making decisions in the middle of the night was that you still had to follow through on them in broad daylight.
I’d showered, changed my clothes twice, and was standing in my kitchen staring at my keys. I picked them up. Put them down, then picked them back up again.
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, forcing my feet toward the door.
During the approximately seven-minute drive from my house to “downtown” Mistletoe Bay, my brain kept telling me to turn around, that Holly would be too busy to speak with me, but I tried my best to shut down those intrusive thoughts.
My therapist had spent months trying to teach me not to catastrophize. “Recognize the thought,” Dr. Chen had said. “Acknowledge it. Then let it pass without judgment.”
Easier said than done when your brain had spent thirty-six years perfecting the art of worst-case scenarios.
She’ll think you’re stalking her.
I had a legitimate reason to be there. I was placing an order.
She’ll be annoyed that you’re interrupting her work.
She ran a business that required customers.
She’ll look at you the way everyone eventually does, with polite disappointment.
Maybe. Or maybe she wouldn’t. There was only one way to find out.
I parked on Main Street, killed the engine, and sat there gripping the steering wheel for a solid thirty seconds. Through the windshield, I could see the bookshop, and above it, a window with warm light spilling out.
I pushed open the door and got out of my SUV before I could talk myself out of it.
Her workshop was accessible via a narrow exterior staircase that looked like it had been added to the building as an afterthought sometime in the seventies—whether that was the 1870s or the 1970s was up for debate. The steps were wooden, worn smooth, and creaked ominously under my weight.
At the top, a door with peeling blue paint had a handwritten sign taped to it that read Blossom & Vine. Knock loudly. I’m probably listening to music!
Through the door, I could hear Taylor Swift singing about it being the damn season.
My hand hovered in the air.
This was it. The moment where I either knocked or I turned around and went back to being the reclusive billionaire on Candlewick Lane everyone whispered about.
I thought about our compatibility score.
I thought about Nate telling me to just be myself.
I thought about Holly’s chuckle when she kidded me about abusing her power to install a giant Christmas tree in my foyer.
I thought about the way her cheeks had turned pink when I’d inadvertently made a sex joke.
I thought about the way her eyes had sparkled when she talked about how much she loved this town.
What choice did I have? I knocked.
The music cut off abruptly, and the sound of quick, light footsteps approached.
A series of locks clicked on the other side, and it finally swung open to reveal Holly standing there in denim overalls with a cream-colored thermal underneath, her hair pulled up in a messy bun with a pencil stuck through it.
She blinked at me, her head tilting to the side. “Luke?”
“Hi,” I said. By some small miracle, my voice didn’t shake, and I hadn’t started sweating yet. “I … uh. I’m sorry to just show up out of the blue like this. I should have called. Or texted. I probably should have—”
“It’s fine,” she said, and to my shock, she smiled. “Come on in. Sorry about the mess.” She stepped back, holding the door open wider, and I forced my feet to move across the threshold.
The smell hit me first: green and fresh, like a forest after rain, cut through with something sweeter—lilies, maybe?—and that sharp, medicinal scent I’d learned was eucalyptus.
Overflowing buckets lined one wall. Roses in shades of red and white—those I knew. Carnations. Some kind of purple flower I couldn’t identify, and a dozen others I’d probably seen in my books but couldn’t name on sight.
The opposite wall held bins of fresh greenery. Pine and cedar—easy. And more seeded eucalyptus, their floppy branches draped over the edges.
The air was cool but not cold, and condensation beaded on the inside of the window behind her worktable, which dominated the center of the room, its surface a mess of ribbon spools, wire cutters, and floral foam, three half-finished arrangements sitting in the center of it all.
But what caught my attention was the far wall—the one she’d mentioned before with the suspicious stain. She’d tried to cover it with a print, but the frame was askew, revealing a blotch that did, indeed, look deeply concerning.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Holly said, following my gaze. “Probably.”
“Have you had someone look at it?”
“I’ve had me look at it, and I’ve decided ignorance is bliss.” She grabbed a spray bottle from the table and misted one of the arrangements. “The building inspector would probably disagree, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“But it might hurt you,” I pointed out, worried it might be black mold.
“I’ll worry about that when the wall actually caves in.” She grabbed a rag from the table and wiped her hands, waving off my concern. “So, Luke Byron, what brings you by? Did Ava forget to pass along some information? Did I?”
“No. No, nothing like that.” I shoved my hands in my pockets, then pulled them out and crossed my arms. That felt too defensive, so I dropped them to my sides. That felt even worse. Like I was a mannequin. Back in the pockets they went. “I wanted to order some arrangements. For Christmas.”
Her eyebrows lifted with interest. “Oh? For your house? Before the Candlelight Walk, I mean?
“No. For …”
God, why was this hard?
“For Mistletoe Bay General Hospital. And Sunrise Senior Living—the nursing home out by Hobson’s Landing.
” The words came faster now, tripping over each other.
“I used to do this every year back in San Francisco, and I want to keep it going. Large arrangements for the common areas, smaller ones for individual rooms. Something festive that makes people feel less alone during the holidays, you know?”
Her lips parted slightly, and a warmth I hadn’t ever seen from her before filled her expression. She looked at me like she was seeing me differently. Like she was seeing me anew, and I wasn’t what she expected.
“Luke, that’s …” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice had grown soft. “That’s really kind.”
“It’s not. Not really. I wish I could do more. It’s just flowers.” I shifted my weight, suddenly hyper-aware of how I was standing, where my hands were, and whether I was making eye contact or avoiding it. The back of my neck felt incredibly hot.
“It’s not ‘just flowers.’” She held my gaze, and I suddenly forgot how to breathe. “It matters. Trust me.”
We stood there, neither of us moving. The space between us felt charged, like the air right before lightning strikes. I could hear my own heartbeat, and could see the faint pulse at the base of her throat.
The longer the silence stretched, the more I told myself to speak. But my brain had gone offline, and all I could think about was the fact that she hadn’t looked away yet.
Neither had I.
“So,” she said finally, her voice slightly breathless. She turned toward her work table—too quickly, almost like she’d been released from a spell—and grabbed a notebook. Her hands fumbled with it before she found a blank page.“Um. Right. Orders. That’s … that’s what we’re doing.”
A small, slightly hysterical laugh escaped her, and she pressed her lips together like she was trying to get control of herself. She shook her head, blew out a breath, and then met my eyes again. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Colors? Style? Budget?”
“Whatever you think is best,” I said. “I trust your judgment.”
She stopped, her pen poised over the paper. There was a bit of playfulness in her gaze now, a hint of mischief that made my stomach flip. “Dangerous words, Mr. Byron. I could take complete advantage of you.”
My response came out before I could stop it. “Do you promise?”
The second the words left my mouth, my brain caught up with what I’d just said.
Oh God.
Oh no.
That was … that was flirting. I’d just flirted. Out loud.
My face went hot. I should backtrack. Laugh it off. Apologize. Say literally anything to make this less—
Holly’s cheeks flushed deep pink, and her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip. “Luke Byron.” She tilted her head, studying me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “Did you just flirt with me?”
“I—” My throat had gone completely dry. I swallowed hard, feeling the heat creep up my neck to settle in my cheeks. “Maybe? Was that … did I …”
“Because if you did,” she continued, her smile widening. “I’d be into it.”
My brain short-circuited.
She’d be into it.
Into me flirting with her.
Into me.
“Oh,” I said intelligently. “That’s good?”
“Was that a question or a statement?” Her eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Statement. Definitely a statement.” I swallowed hard. “That’s good. Really good.”
She laughed—a real laugh this time, not nervous or flustered, but genuinely delighted. The sound threatened to wreck my composure.
“Well then.” She looked down at her notebook, then back up at me, still smiling. “I guess we should probably talk about flowers now.”
She nudged a stool toward me with her foot, the legs scraping across the worn floor. “Sit. Talk to me about these arrangements.”
I sat.
Of course I sat.
And for once in my life, I didn’t even think about running away.