Chapter 6
Six
Holly
Four days later…
The annual cookie-baking marathon is basically the Super Bowl of Hadley family traditions. Mom’s the coach, I’m the star taste-tester, and Dad stays out in the barn until they’re all ready, so he won’t be tempted to “sample” every batch.
I, however, lack that degree of self-control…
“I need one more,” I murmur, plucking a sugar cookie from the cooling rack. “Just one.”
Mom laughs. “That’s what you said five minutes ago.”
“I know,” I say, grinning as I lean back against the counter, watching my mother work at the long farmhouse table, “but I mean it this time, I really do.”
“Oh, stop. Eat as many as you want, baby. You know calories don’t exist at Christmas,” she says as she meticulously pipes icing onto an army of gingerbread men destined for the town’s holiday fundraiser. “Not in this house, anyway.”
“I love this house,” I say around a mouthful of sinfully buttery cookie.
And I do.
Especially at this time of year.
The radio on the counter plays non-stop Christmas carols, a fire pops in the woodstove, and outside the window, the world is a peaceful expanse of white, the mountains blanketed in a fresh layer of snow under a brilliant blue sky.
This is my favorite part of the holidays.
I love the chaos of all the Silver Bell Falls events and traditions, but if I had to choose just one way to celebrate, it would be here, in this house, where I’ve always felt so safe and loved.
I really am so lucky.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, since a certain billionaire with a troubled family history broke-and-entered his way into my life…
“Oh, shoot,” Mom says, straightening. “Sweetheart, would you mind running the Christmas cards out to the mailbox before the postman comes?” She gestures with her icing bag toward the stack of red and green envelopes on the edge of the counter.
“I want to get them out today so they’ll have plenty of time to get where they’re going before Christmas. ”
“On it,” I say, grabbing the cards.
As I shrug into my coat and step into my snow boots in the mudroom, I call back into the kitchen, “Tell Dad he can pick me up at the end of the driveway when he’s ready, okay? I’m going to walk down and visit the furry cows at the Johnsons before we leave.”
“Okay, baby,” Mom calls back. “See you soon. Let me know if you want to come to Bingo on Saturday.”
“Will do,” I promise before stepping through the door.
Outside, the winter air is a shock after the warmth of the kitchen, but it’s nice to be outside with nothing between me and the view. Vermont isn’t always a kind place in the winter, but damn, it’s beautiful.
Pulling my coat tighter, I start down the recently plowed driveway, boots crunching in the snow. As I walk, my gaze drifts up the mountainside, past the snow-laden pines, to the spot where the Ratcliffe mansion presides over the valley like a silent, stone king, thoughts turning to Luke again.
I can’t believe I didn’t realize how rough his childhood was, but his father didn’t visit much, and Luke and I didn’t talk about things like that when we were kids.
We were too young and, even if we’d been older, it often takes time for a person to realize that what they think of as “normal” is anything but.
But Luke didn’t go from a kind, protective kid to a rigid, emotionally guarded man all on his own. No, someone made him that way, most likely his father, since he said he hadn’t seen his mother since he was a child.
God, what must that feel like?
To have your mother leave and never come back?
My mother has always been my biggest fan and steadiest supporter, not to mention my confidante and now, my friend. Even imagining a life without her love, without the shelter from life’s storms she and my father have always provided, makes my throat tight.
Luke clearly needs more than holiday spirit. He needs someone to remind him that it’s safe to drop his guard and feel.
Someone to reflect back to him the real Luke.
That knight-in-shining-armor is still there.
There’s no doubt in my mind about that now.
I caught so many glimpses of him at the tree-lighting, from the way he dressed the animals, with such care and respect, to the way he talked poor Tam Tam back from the edge of the abyss, to the way he protected a terrified little chipmunk.
And he’d already been on his way to help protect Willow, even before Cheeks made a break for it.
The hero I once knew is still in there, and the mischief maker, too. I made him smile at least once, and I could tell he wanted to smile more. He just needs time to relax and learn to trust again.
But is three weeks enough to break through the…
My thoughts trail off as I near the end of the driveway and Willow Wimbley’s quirky purple cottage comes into view.
As if conjured by longing thoughts, there he is—Luke Ratcliffe. But not the businessman in a suit I met at the town hall or the tightly buttoned-up man in khakis and a thick wool coat from last Friday.
No, this is Luke as I’ve never seen him before, in a deep blue flannel that stretches across his broad shoulders, worn jeans that mold to his thighs, and sturdy-looking boots, the kind the farmer’s daughter in me will always find sexy.
And to top it all off, he’s holding an axe. An axe.
Be still, my lumberjack-fantasy-having heart…
As I watch, thighs tingling in a way they haven’t in a damned long time, he swings the axe through the air with a clean, powerful motion. The log splits with a sharp thwack that echoes in the still air, doing scandalous things to my nipples.
Wow.
I mean, I knew I was frisky for Luke, but this…
This is ridiculous. As a bead of sweat trickles down his temple and he brushes it away with his glove, his bicep flexing beneath his flannel, I’m practically salivating.
I’m still staring, Christmas cards forgotten in my hand, when he places a wobbly piece of wood on the block. He measures his swing, but just as he lifts the axe, the log tips and falls. He lets out a curse, and I see my opening.
I mean, I wouldn’t want to disturb him while he’s working, but if the man clearly needs my help…
Tucking Mom’s cards quickly into the mailbox, I start across the snow-dusted gravel road. “Hey, you need a hand?” I call out.
He freezes, axe in mid-air, his eyes widening in surprise when he sees me. “H-Holly. What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” I grin as I climb the gentle incline into the yard, gesturing back toward my parents’ house. “Well, my mom and dad do. This is where I grew up. What are you doing here?”
“I brought Cheeks back and saw that Willow was low on firewood, so..” He trails off as his gaze skims across my family’s land, silently evaluating before he adds, “I should have known you grew up on a farm.”
“You really should have,” I agree. “I’m way too good with animals to be a village girl.”
“And far too wholesome,” he agrees, his mouth twitching before he adds, “Except when you’re giving a man a safe word, of course.”
Cheeks heating with pleasure—If that wasn’t flirting, I don’t know what is!
—I nod. “Right. Except then.” I arch an equally flirty brow his way.
“So, you want to lose a foot? Or do you want some wholesome farm girl help before you hurt yourself? I know a losing battle with a knotty birch when I see it.”
He arches a brow, that teasing light I glimpsed a few times at the tree lighting in his eyes. “How could I resist an offer like that? I am rather attached to my foot.”
“As you should be,” I say, crossing to the splitting stump. “But don’t worry, I know how to handle a piece of wood.” The moment the breezy words leave my mouth, I realize how raunchy they sound, and wince. “I mean…”
Luke’s lips curve into a wicked grin so devastating I nearly forget how to breathe. “What did you mean, Ms. Hadley?”
“You know what I meant,” I say, the urge to jump into his sexy, flannel-covered arms more intense than ever.
I’m pretty sure Luke wouldn’t be disappointed in my “wood handling” skills.
And I know I wouldn’t be disappointed with anything he has to offer.
Beneath his uptight exterior lurks a man just waiting for an excuse to go absolutely feral on a woman.
I can feel it, sense it in the way every nerve in my body goes on high alert as he extends an arm, welcoming me into his space.
“I do know what you meant,” he says. “Come on then, expert, show a city slicker how it’s done.”
Collecting the knotty piece from the ground, I step up to the block. “It’s not rocket science. It’s just that this piece is uneven. You need someone to brace it for you with the kindling stick.” I crouch down, positioning the log. “Try it now.’
“Are you sure you trust me that much?” he asks.
I look up, holding his gaze as I assure him, “I know you won’t hurt me. If you have faith in your abilities, so do I.”
He nods, his eyes still penetrating mine in a way that feels deliciously intimate as he murmurs, “All right. I’ll do my best not to let you down.”
He shifts his stance, his focus, and then, in one fluid motion, he swings. The axe comes down with a satisfying crack, splitting the log perfectly in two. The force of it sends a shiver up the kindling into my arms, but I am otherwise unscathed.
As I knew I would be.
“See?” I say, a little breathless. “So far, we’re a pretty good team.”
“So, it would seem. But if I never have to squeeze another squeaky toy, it’ll be too soon.”
I grin. “Understood. No more squeaky toys, I promise.” I nod toward the woodpile. “Come on. I’ll help you do the tricky pieces before I have to go.”
For the next few minutes, we fall into an easy rhythm. I select the knotty logs, and he chops, looking sexy as heck swinging that axe every single time. The pile of split wood grows steadily.
Nearly as steadily as my attraction…
Would it be scandalous to ask my blackmail victim if he wants to grab a drink tonight? And if not, how to transition from “I’m here to help with the wood” to “we should hit the village local tonight” without being too painfully obvious?
I’m so focused on the electricity pulsing between us, I don’t see the jagged edge of the next log until it’s too late.
“Ow! Shoot!” I yelp, dropping the log and snatching my hand to my chest.
“What is it?” Luke’s voice is sharp with concern, the teasing tone gone.
“Nothing, it’s just a splinter.” I bite my bottom lip. “But it’s a big one. Ouch. Right in the middle of my thumb.”
He’s at my side a second later, shucking his gloves as he draws my palm into his hands. “Let me see.” His touch is gentle, but assured, as if he’s tended to dozens of splinters before. “I’m sorry. I should have given you my gloves. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“No, it’s okay,” I say, the world narrowing to his warm, wood-and-smoky-cologne scent.
“It’s not okay.” His dark hair falls over his forehead as he inspects my palm with an intensity that makes me very aware of how warm his skin feels against mine. “That’s a serious splinter.”
“It is,” I murmur, shivers of awareness working their way up my arm as he strokes his thumb back and forth over my wrist. My breath catches, and then he looks up, and I forget how to breathe entirely.
“But there’s enough on the surface, I think I can get it out,” he says in a husky voice I instantly long to hear saying spicier things to me in the dark. “Permission to attempt a removal?”
I nod, biting my bottom lip before I whisper, “Yes, please.”
Cradling my open palm in one hand, he slowly, carefully captures the end of the splinter between his thumbs. “Okay, deep breath,” he says. “One, two…”
By the time I’ve convinced my ribs to expand, the splinter is out, and Luke is pressing the sleeve of his flannel to the small dot of blood on my skin.
“Oh, no,” I say, trying to pull away. “Don’t ruin your shirt.”
“Fuck the shirt,” he says gently, continuing to dab at my thumb. “You’re more important than a shirt.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“More important than many shirts.”
He lifts his gaze from my hand to my face, his eyes filled with something that looks a lot like longing.
God, I hope it’s longing.
I’m certainly feeling the longing.
The air is positively crackling with it…
And then, he leans closer, and I tilt my chin up.
Suddenly, I realize, this is it! This is the moment! He’s going to kiss me. The certainty thrums through every nerve in my body, making my thighs start to tingle all over again as—
“Holly Jo!” A voice shouts from the road, making Luke and me startle apart. “You ready to go, honey? I gotta get these deliveries over the mountain.”
I turn to see my father waving cheerfully from his truck window, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he just kiss-blocked his daughter.
But then, Dad always has been a tad bit oblivious, the kind of guy who’s more at home in the lab with his cheese than the social events my mother loves.
“Yeah, Dad, just a second!” I call, before turning back to Luke. “Sorry, I um… I have to go.”
He nods, but he’s still looking at me like he wants me to stay. “Of course.”
“I um… Yeah. So…” I back away, willing my stupid lips to ask him to the pub. “So, I was thinking—”
“Who’s that, Holly Jo?” my dad cuts in. “Aren’t you going to introduce us? You know I love to meet your friends.”
Fighting a teenage-angst-level eye roll with everything in me, I turn back to my father. “Of course! Dad, this is Luke Ratcliffe, a savvy businessman from New York. Luke, this is my Dad, George, a hardworking farmer who needs to deliver the cheese.”
Luke waves at my father, a smile curving his lips as he murmurs for my ears only, “Deliver the cheese. That sounds dirty, too. But not as dirty as handling the wood.”
Cheeks hot again, I drawl, “Yeah, well, what can I say, I—”
“Holly Jo, please,” Dad calls again, a pleading note in his voice. “If I don’t get this rosemary and thyme to the chef before three o’clock, the people at the French restaurant are going to have my—”
“I’m coming, Dad. I’m coming!” I shout, starting toward the truck. “Sorry,” I call back to Luke, hating to leave him while he’s in a flirty mood more than I can express. “Talk to you later?”
He nods. “See you Friday.”
Friday. Argh!
I would have preferred to see him sooner, but…Friday it is.
And he’d better be ready to pick up where we left off.
I know I will…