Chapter 3 Holly
HOLLY
It’s all fun and games until Santa sees your search history.
—Holly’s Secret Thoughts
“Yes, Ryleigh, I got them.” Sarcasm drips thick as honey from my lips as I silently tell myself to tone down the bitch for a hot minute and grab the jumbo box of tampons she asked for when I said I was running to the pharmacy.
Sixty-five thousand dollars in student loan debt later, and I’m a glorified gofer. My college adviser would be so proud.
“Rainey wants you to grab a thing of diapers too, Holls,” Ryleigh adds as the chaos in the background gets louder. “Gotta go.”
The call ends, and I stare at my phone.
She just hung up on me.
“Sounds like you better get diapers,” a deep, gravelly voice teases, and I close my eyes and count to ten, hoping the universe will swallow me whole before I open them again and find myself face-to-chest with a beautifully broad one .
. . One that’s stretching the seams of a dark-blue hoodie.
And it only takes a quick glance down for my mouth to water.
Mr. Broad Chest is wearing gray sweats. The good kind.
The sexy kind. The kind that makes me think of book boyfriends, naughty actions, and spicy scenes.
Yes, please.
My gaze snaps up. And up. And up.
And . . . oh my garland . . .
“You . . .”
It’s him.
The baby-wearing-gladiator-sized man from Sweet Temptations, sans baby.
A pack of diapers in one hand, a bottle of medicine in the other, and a sexy smirk tugging at his lips.
Could someone please explain to me why that’s such a potent combination?
“It’s not nice to stalk people.”
I smile because sarcasm is my weapon of choice for offense and defense. I was never the biggest sibling, or the meanest, but according to my family, I can wield my words like a weapon of mass destruction.
What can I say?
It’s a gift.
The man I’ll forever more refer to as the golden gladiator lifts a brow, and I’m fairly certain he’s amused. “Right . . . Because I like to spend my free time following women around to make sure they get Costco-sized boxes of tampons and diapers. It’s a real turn-on for me.”
“You never know.” I cock my head and purse my lips. “You might be partial to a certain brand.”
“More like there’s only one pharmacy in Kroydon Hills.” Golden boy looks at me, clearly amused but refusing to crack an actual smile.
Hmmm . . . maybe golden boy sounds better than golden gladiator. I reserve the right to finalize my decision later. “True. But twice in two days is a little odd.”
“Pretty sure you ran into me both times.” His eyes widen when he reads my shirt, but still no smile, just shakes his head.
What can I say? I’m Christmas’s version of a basic bitch. You can keep your pumpkin-spice everything. Give me all the holiday fun and food and festive decorations, and I’m like the happiest little elf at the North Pole. Just keep Handsy Santa away, and I’m good.
Not that I’m going to tell a complete stranger any of that. At least not at the pharmacy while I’m holding tampons. Maybe if we were at a bar holding a drink, I could flirt, but how do you flirt surrounded by tampons and diapers?
Shit. The diapers.
I look around golden boy’s gladiator-sized—yeah, that’s not going to work either—shoulder and shake my head. “Pretty sure you’re blocking the diapers.”
His grin sharpens, all mossy-green eyes and incredibly unfair dimples, and my insides melt like mini marshmallows in my favorite hot cocoa. “Ladies first.”
We stare at each other, both fighting off smiles—him better than me—stuck in some kind of high-stakes standoff.
Kind of like a bad western movie, only instead of tumbleweeds rolling by with intimidating music playing as our soundtrack, Mariah is singing about Christmas, and an old man in a Santa hat wearing an anatomically correct yeti sweater wheels a shopping cart full of holiday wrapping paper down the aisle.
The golden giant—okay, maybe no nickname for this guy because none of them do him justice—steps aside and chivalrously opens his arms. “After you.”
I flutter my lashes for effect and curtsey. “Thank you.”
But as I snap back up, the universe decides to shame me for flirting with the hot daddy—ohh . . . that one could work—and my arm brushes a display of oversized candy canes stacked in the shape of a Christmas tree.
At least it was before the whole thing collapses around me in a clatter of red-and-white-striped, sugar-coated chaos.
And that’s what I get for trying to flirt.
Apparently, mortification is what it takes for this gorgeous stranger to finally smile, and oh my, what a smile it is. He doesn’t even try to hide it or his laughter, and the sound is deep and rough and tugs in places it has no business being.
“You always this destructive?” he asks, with a dimple popping deep in his cheek. “First the bakery and now here?”
Yup. There’s that voice.
“Only when mysterious men in sweatpants distract me.” I feel like that was a cute comeback, but I have zero doubt ten things better will pop into my head as soon as I leave here.
The big man bends down and snags two candy canes, then holds them out for me, his amused grin pure trouble. And maybe now I wish he’d held back on that smile. Less dangerous that way. “Compensation for damages.”
I stare at the candy canes like they’re venomous snakes, while also trying to save what’s left of my dignity. “You think you’re so cute, don’t you?”
His gaze lingers, and that smile says it all. “Pretty sure you do too.”
Well, he’s not wrong, but there’s no way I’m telling him that. Instead, I shake my head and nibble my lip as I slink toward the register, but sexy stranger —Ohh, now that’s a good one too—follows behind, tugging my hair when we stop in line.
I look up and see a cheap sprig of plastic mistletoe stuck in a blonde curl.
Seriously? Am I being punished?
This man steps closer . . . Too close, as he reaches for my hair again, and I don’t stop him. And okay, so maybe I lean into him . . . just a little bit.
I shouldn’t, but his grin is deliciously sexy and kind of mesmerizing. And I’m totally going to blame my momentary lapse in judgment on that.
“You know what they say—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence,” I warn, flirting be damned.
His eyes warm as his breath brushes my cheek, one big hand carefully working the cheap plastic out of my curl. My stranger’s touch is gentle and more than enough to fry what’s left of my working brain cells.
What is happening?
“There,” he murmurs as he tugs it free and holds the fake leaves over my head.
“Umm . . . I don’t kiss strangers in drug store checkout lines, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I whisper as my pulse pounds in my head.
I mean, maybe I could . . .
If I were going to, it would definitely be him.
“We can fix that.” Sexy stranger’s grin sharpens, and before I know what’s happening, he plucks the diapers and tampons free from my hands and tosses them on the counter. “She’s with me.”
I’m what?
I look from my stranger to the cashier, who beams like she’s watching a Hallmark Christmas movie come to life.
I, however, am plotting his murder. Sexy murder. With candy canes. Sharp ones. And possibly some orgasms before I off him. “I am not with him,” I growl and grab my goodies back. “And these are mine.”
He pulls a card from his wallet and grabs my goods right back out of my hands. “Exactly. With me.”
“Oh wow. Is this like your meet cute?” the cashier asks, and this time, I think I actually growl. Apparently, someone’s been reading too many romance books. “That’s so sweet of you.”
“Sweet?” I whisper. “Hijacking my dignity in aisle five is not sweet.” I narrow my eyes on the sexy stranger, who’s name I still don’t know. “I’m perfectly capable of buying my own tampons. And. These. Aren’t. Even. For. Me.”
No clue why I feel the need to announce that to anyone within a five-mile radius, but I do it anyway.
The way this man smiles makes me think he doesn’t do it often. Like he’s surprising himself and that somehow makes his smile bigger. “I don’t doubt that one little bit. How about you consider this an investment in future peace treaties.”
I give up.
I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. “Peace treaties? Are we going to war?”
“Not war. Just preemptively garnering favor for the next time you stalk me. Or knock over another Christmas display.”
Next time?
I glare as the cashier tosses everything into one bag while humming “All I Want For Christmas Is You,” like we’re her favorite TV couple.
This unbelievably infuriating man taps his card and pockets it again before I can catch his name.
“What just happened?” I mutter to myself as we walk through the automatic doors onto the snowy sidewalk. “Who are you?”
“Your hero?” he offers, way too cocky, and I want to hit him or kiss him.
Pretty sure the kissing would be more fun, but you never know.
“Don’t think this makes us even,” I blurt out, totally off-kilter with no clue what to do about it. How I got here. Or what his name even is.
Sexy stranger, golden gladiator, hot daddy laughs, and that sound . . . It warms my insides before a blast of cold air smacks me in the face, and my cell phone rings with the ringtone Hadley programmed for Ryleigh as I dig my stuff out of the bag he’s holding.
Reality is calling, and she’s a bitch.
Not my sister. Just reality.
Well really, Ryleigh is too.
“Thanks for the tampons, diaper guy.” I wiggle my fingers and enjoy the small smile playing on his lips. “And for the record, we’re still strangers. Future peace treaties be damned.”
He shakes his head as I turn away and carefully march toward my car.
If I slip on the ice and fall on my ass right now, I’ll never forgive myself.
And as I drive home, I act like embarrassment is what has me flushing at the memory of what’s possibly going down in history as the most disastrous trip to the drug store ever, instead of the brush of hot dad, golden-boy gladiator’s hands against mine.
If I ever see him again, I’m definitely coming up with a better nickname.