Chapter 4
Noel
Friday Morning—En Route to Manhattan
If I’d known what I was signing up for when Connor said “personal favor,” I might’ve asked for combat pay.
Because Holly Winters, in daylight, is a goddamn problem.
She’s sitting next to me in the SUV, the seatbelt cutting a clean line across that red coat, skirt hugging curves that make concentrating on traffic a full-contact sport.
She smells like sugar cookies and fresh coffee—soft, warm, lethal.
I told her I’d drive.
She’d tried to argue.
But that didn’t last long.
“City parking is a nightmare,” I’d said. “You handle the flowers. I’ll handle getting us in and out of there alive.”
Now she’s scrolling through her planner app, completely oblivious to the double takes she’s drawing at every stoplight.
The cabbie in the next lane nearly rear-ended someone trying to look at her reflection in my window.
She doesn’t even notice.
And that’s what kills me most, she has no idea what she does to a room.
When we pull up in front of Petal & Thorn, the high-end florist that’s doing the gala’s centerpieces, she pops her seatbelt and reaches for the door before I’ve even shifted into park.
“Wait,” I say, catching her wrist. “Let me check the street first.”
She blinks at me. “For what? Angry poinsettia smugglers?”
“Funny,” I mutter, scanning the sidewalk. “But humor me.”
She huffs but lets me go ahead. The December air hits hard when I step out—cold, sharp, tinted with the scent of pine from the shop’s window display.
I open her door and motion for her to proceed, keeping one hand near the small of her back as we head inside.
The bell above the door jingles, and the place explodes with color. Flowers everywhere—roses, evergreens, glittered pinecones, and some kind of artful tangle of silver branches that probably costs more than my truck.
“Ms. Winters!” a woman calls from behind the counter, her face lighting up. “You’re early!”
Holly smiles, bright and genuine, and it’s like someone turned on the sun in here.
“Couldn’t wait to see what you’ve been working on, Sheila,” she says warmly. “The store looks simply incredible!”
Every head in the shop turns toward her voice. I’m not kidding—every single one.
The delivery guy freezes mid-step, a woman arranging hydrangeas straightens up, and even the cashier stops typing.
All eyes, right on her.
Holly draws everyone’s attention—just like tinsel, I muse with a sigh.
She still has no idea.
While she leans over to smell a bouquet, chatting about table arrangements and budget caps, I stay a few feet behind, watching.
Not her—though I did glance at her gorgeous peach of an ass in that skirt (hey, I’m a man, not a saint)—I take in the entire room.
Two men by the register can’t stop staring.
The younger one elbows his buddy, nodding in her direction. My jaw tightens automatically.
I step closer. Just enough for them to see me.
Their smiles vanish.
That’s better.
“What do you think?” the store manager asks Holly, but I’m barely registering the conversation.
I’m too busy glaring at these fucking imbeciles who can’t stop staring at her.
And I wonder at how ludicrous it is that someone like Holly—all soft curves and warm smiles—doesn’t realize she’s a goddamn goddess.
“So these will go around the base of the tree in the main hall,” Holly’s saying, waving toward an arrangement bursting with white lilies and silver eucalyptus. “Oh, and don’t forget we need three twelve-foot floral arches. One for the main entrance and two for each side entrance.”
Sheila nods enthusiastically. “You’re a visionary, Holly. Big City Events and Drew’s House are both lucky to have you!”
Holly blushes, ducking her head.
“Oh, well, this is an important event to me and the company, of course. I’m just trying not to mess anything up.”
“Not possible,” I say before I can stop myself.
She glances up, eyes bright.
“What?”
I shrug, adjusting the cuff of my jacket.
“You don’t mess things up.”
The florist grins knowingly. Holly glares at me like she’s torn between laughing and throwing a poinsettia.
“You’re just saying that so I won’t fight you about being my chauffeur.”
“Maybe.”
“Wow, you get a chauffeur these days? Sounds like a great promotion,” the florist says with a wicked grin as she looks me up and down.
I clear my throat.
Holly just snorts softly, shaking her head, and moves toward the next display.
I follow—close enough to be a wall between her and anyone else, far enough that she won’t accuse me of hovering.
But I can’t help the way my gaze tracks her. The way she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, talks with her hands, lights up when she explains her vision for the gala’s theme.
She doesn’t realize she commands a room better than most CEOs I’ve protected.
And God help me, I’m realizing I like watching her do it.
When we step back out onto the street twenty minutes later, she exhales into the cold air, cheeks pink from the warmth inside.
“That went well,” she says brightly. “See? No danger, no drama.”
“Except for the part where half the men in there forgot they were breathing,” I mutter.
She glances sideways, frowning. “Excuse me?”
I start walking toward the car. “Nothing. Just doing my job.”
“What, glaring at innocent bystanders?”
“Keeping eyes off you,” I correct, opening her door. “You draw attention. I can’t protect you if you don’t notice that.”
Her brows lift. “So, I’m supposed to apologize for existing now?”
“Not what I said.”
She crosses her arms. “Sure sounds like it.”
I sigh, fighting a losing battle with my patience. “Look, Tinsel—”
“There it is again,” she cuts in, smirking. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Not my fault it fits.”
She slides into the seat, all sass and soft perfume, tossing me a glance that lands squarely between challenge and flirtation.
“Careful, Mr. Kane. Keep calling me that, and people might start to think you’re the one who can’t stop looking at shiny things like me.”
I close her door, muttering, “That’s what I’m afraid of,” before walking around to the driver’s side.
Because the truth is—I can’t stop staring at her.
And that’s a hell of a problem.