Chapter One #2
The truth was—and I'd never admit this to anyone, barely admitted it to myself—I'd devoured every romance novel in the library's collection.
Twice. I'd also discovered the spicy ones I'd found when I helped Mee-Maw organize her bedroom last spring, thinking she didn't know I'd noticed them.
I had a worn copy of The Hating Game that I'd read so many times the spine was cracked, and I'd stayed up late scrolling through book forums, reading about characters who got their happy endings.
But I'd never actually experienced any of the steamy romance those books promised. Never had someone look at me with desire, never been kissed like I mattered. I was too shy, too self-conscious about my curves to know how to act around men who might actually want me.
Twenty-six and still a virgin. Not for lack of wanting, but because the dating pool in Mistletoe Ridge was nonexistent.
Every setup from well-meaning church ladies, including that mortifying dinner with Mrs. Henderson's grandson visiting from Dallas, ended the same way—guys treating me like a buddy, a pal, someone to talk to about their problems but never someone they actually wanted.
Apparently the curvy girl in hand-knitted sweaters who quoted Dr. Seuss couldn't possibly be someone they desired.
Working at Lasso & Lace had opened my eyes to possibilities. Things I'd only read about in those romance novels. Things that made me blush when I stocked shelves but also left me curious—achingly curious—about what it would be like to try them with someone who looked at me like I was worth wanting.
The highway stretched empty ahead. At this hour, with the weather turning nasty, most people were already home. Smart people who didn't have second jobs requiring them to dress like a Christmas elf in an adult boutique.
I pulled into the parking lot behind Lasso & Lace at five forty-eight and grabbed Vixen's carrier. My shift started at six, which usually gave me time to change and prep. My fingers had gone numb despite gloves. Ice crystals stuck to my eyelashes.
The back entrance key stuck in the lock like it always did when the temperature dropped.
Had to jiggle it twice before the door finally gave way.
Inside, I flipped on the lights and the shop transformed.
Tasteful holiday decorations everywhere—Angela had insisted on "festive but sexy.
" Red and gold garland draped the displays.
Twinkling white lights framed the front windows.
A modest tree in the corner, decorated with ornaments that would make Santa blush.
Tiny handcuffs. Miniature massage oil bottles.
A glittery ornament shaped like something I tried very hard not to think about.
"Okay, Vixen." I set her carrier on the counter and unlatched the door. She stepped out with the dignity of royalty, surveying her temporary domain. "Wish me luck."
She gave me another slow blink, then began grooming her shoulder with exaggerated care. If she could talk, she'd probably tell me to get it together.
In the back room, I stripped off my cardigan and long skirt, folded them carefully on the chair Angela kept there, and stared at the "uniform" hanging on the hook.
Angela had instituted the elf costume policy last week—"festive attire for the final shopping days before Christmas," she'd called it.
Eight months, and the embarrassment never faded. If anything, it got worse.
Deep breath. You need this job. Eyes on the prize—library school, career, future.
I pulled on the red velvet elf costume with its strategic cutouts showing more cleavage than I'd ever displayed in my entire life.
The skirt barely covered anything, stopping at a length that sent me tugging it lower every few seconds.
Green and white striped tights that at least provided some coverage.
A jingle bell hat that announced every movement I made.
My reflection in the small mirror looked like a stranger.
Someone bolder than I usually felt. I pulled out the knitting needles holding my bun in place, letting my honey-highlighted hair tumble down past my shoulders in waves.
At least that looked better—softer, less "librarian who forgot to brush her hair. "
My glasses had fogged when I first walked in from the cold outside, but now they were clear again. I tried adjusting the costume's neckline. The deep V gaped whenever I leaned forward. Who had Angela ordered these costumes from—Sexy Elves R Us?
For one wild, completely inappropriate second, I let myself imagine Shep seeing me like this.
Walking through that door and finding me in this costume instead of my usual armor of cardigans and sensible skirts.
Would his eyes go dark? Would that slow smile spread across his face?
Would he look at me the way heroes in romance novels looked at heroines—like they wanted to devour them?
Stop it. Stop it right now.
I grabbed my phone from my bag. Three texts from Angela, each one more enthusiastic than the last.
Don't forget the inventory tonight! New Cowboy Collection needs to be logged ASAP.
And check the holiday display—make sure everything's stocked for last-minute shoppers!
You're a doll! ??
I stared at the screen. Inventory. On December 23rd, the night before Christmas Eve, during a snowstorm. Of course.
The Cowboy Collection was Angela's newest pride and joy—a whole display of Western-themed items that sent me looking for the nearest exit every time I walked past it.
Lasso-themed products. Chaps that were definitely not for riding horses.
Things with spurs that had absolutely nothing to do with ranch work.
I typed back: On it.
Then: Snow's getting bad. Might need to close early?
Her response came immediately: Do the inventory first! You'll be fine Roads should be clear by the time you're done.
Right. Fine. Totally fine.
Each step back to the main floor made the bell on my hat chime.
The heels Angela insisted we wear made me wobble.
I'd only worn heels three times in my life—prom, Mee-Maw's friend's wedding, and that disastrous blind date where I'd twisted my ankle in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot.
I paused at the threshold to adjust the costume's neckline and push my glasses into place, then stepped out onto the sales floor.
The shop was quiet except for Christmas music playing softly—some instrumental version of "Baby It's Cold Outside" that felt a little too on the nose given the weather.
I grabbed the inventory checklist from behind the counter, along with the pen Angela kept on a chain because apparently people stole pens from sex shops. The massage oil display needed to be checked first, then—
The bell above the door chimed.
Not the regular bell. Angela had swapped it out for one that played "Santa Baby" in its entirety, which meant roughly thirty seconds of Eartha Kitt purring about sables and convertibles and Santa coming down the chimney. I'd timed it once during a particularly slow shift.
I looked up.
Shepherd Starr stood in the doorway, snow melting on his shoulders, dark hair slightly mussed from the wind. His Stetson was in his hands. Snow caked his boots and the bottom of his jeans.
My face went cold, then blazed with heat.
We stared at each other.
"Miss Flannery." The words came out rough, like he'd swallowed gravel.
He looked from the jingle bell hat down the cutouts in the red velvet, paused at the striped tights, then dragged his eyes slowly back up to my face.
The surprise in his expression shifted into something that sent my pulse racing.
I wanted to disappear. To cease existing. To reverse time and choose literally any other job in Mistletoe Ridge.
"I do not like green eggs and ham," I blurted out, then immediately wanted to die. "I mean—that's not—" Color flooded my cheeks. "Sam-I-Am. The book. When you don't want something but—" I pressed the checklist to my chest. "Shep. What are you doing here?"
"I, uh..." He cleared his throat, not quite meeting my eyes now. Color crept up his neck. "Dash was so excited about your toy shop. Thought I'd come support local business. Maybe find something special for him for Christmas."
Oh God. This couldn't be happening. This absolutely could not be happening.
"This isn't—" I gestured helplessly at the shop, at everything, at my jingling hat. "It's not that kind of toy store."
He looked around the space behind me, really taking it in now, and comprehension dawned across his features.
My phone's weather alert blared to life, making us both jump. The automated voice cut through the awkward silence, loud and mechanical.
"Blizzard warning in effect for Texas Panhandle region. Highway 287 now closed to all traffic. All residents should shelter in place immediately. This is not a test. Repeat: Highway 287 is now closed."
The words settled between us.
We stared at each other.
Outside, the world had turned white. I could barely see my car through the wall of falling snow.
"You're kidding," I whispered.
Shep pulled out his phone, thumbed at the screen. His jaw tightened. When he looked up at me—in my costume, still holding my checklist—the heat in his eyes was unmistakable.
"Roads are closed." The words were low and measured. "Looks like we're stuck here."
The heating system hummed to life, filling the silence.
I was trapped in an adult boutique with Shepherd Starr. The single dad whose son I read stories to every Thursday. The man who turned me into a stammering mess just by walking into a room. The one person in Mistletoe Ridge I absolutely could not have find out about this job.
And he was looking at me like he'd just noticed what had been right in front of him all along.
Outside, the blizzard raged on. Inside, the temperature seemed to climb by several degrees.
This was going to be a very interesting night.