Chapter five
Holly
I have officially lost control of my life, my libido, and possibly my heart.
Two days. Forty-eight hours snowed in with Luke Carson, and I have had more orgasms than I’ve had in the entire previous year. My thighs are sore, my lips are swollen, and I’ve discovered that the man can do things with his tongue that should come with a warning label and a safe word.
We finally dug out this morning. The county plows made it through at dawn, and the ranch is suddenly crawling with staff and the first wave of wedding guests who managed to four-wheel their way in before the next storm hits.
I’m back in wedding-planner mode: clipboard in one hand, coffee in the other, hair in a knot that says I mean business.
I should feel calm, organized, in control. Instead, I feel like I’m wearing a neon sign that flashes LUKE CARSON FUCKED ME SIX WAYS TO SUNDAY across my forehead.
Every time I catch sight of him, my stomach flips like a teenager. He hasn’t touched me in public since we crawled out of his bed this morning, but his eyes keep finding mine across the yard, dark and knowing, and I want to drag him into the hayloft.
Focus, Holly.
The barn looks like a Christmas fairytale exploded in the best way.
Pine garland everywhere, fairy lights twinkling, a twelve-foot noble fir in the corner waiting for ornaments.
The staff and early guests are buzzing around with ladders and extension cords, and I’m directing traffic like a deranged air-traffic controller.
“Lanterns go on the shepherd hooks, not the fence posts!” I yell at a cousin of Frankie’s who clearly thinks “symmetrical” is a suggestion. “And somebody find me the box labeled ‘mistletoe’ before I—”
I walk straight under the archway we just hung.
And right into Luke’s arms.
He catches me by the waist like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, spins me once, a full pirouette, my boots leaving the ground, and sets me down under a sprig of mistletoe the size of a small shrub.
“Tradition,” he says, grinning like the devil himself, and kisses me. Not a peck. Not a cute holiday smooch. A full-on, bend-me-over-the-nearest-surface kiss.
His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head exactly how he wants it. His mouth opens over mine, hot and deliberate, tongue stroking once, twice, like he’s reminding me exactly how good he is at this. My clipboard clatters to the floor. Someone whoops. Someone else whistles.
I forget how to breathe.
When he finally pulls back, my knees are jelly and my panties are a lost cause.
The barn has gone suspiciously quiet.
I stare up at him, lips tingling, heart trying to punch through my ribs.
Luke’s eyes are dark, satisfied, and just a little smug. “Merry Christmas, Boss Lady.” Then he lets me go and saunters off like he didn’t just set my entire nervous system on fire in front of twenty witnesses.
I stand there under the mistletoe like an idiot while blood rushes in my ears.
Frankie appears at my elbow, eyes wide. “Holy shit.”
“Shut up,” I hiss.
“That was—”
“I said shut up.”
I bend to retrieve my clipboard, cheeks burning so hot I could melt the snow outside. My hands are shaking. I can still taste him.
I’m a professional. I have planned weddings for senators and rock stars. I once saved a ceremony in the middle of a hurricane with duct tape.
The rest of the afternoon is torture. Every time I turn around, someone is grinning at me. Grandma Martha winks every time I walk past. One of the ranch hands asks if the mistletoe comes with an encore. Frankie keeps humming “Kiss the Girl” under her breath.
Luke, the bastard, acts like nothing happened. He hauls boxes, hangs garland, and every time our eyes meet, he gives me this slow, secret smile that makes my stomach flip.
By dusk, I’m a jittery mess. I hide in the tack room pretending to count chairs, trying to get my head straight.
Sleeping with Luke was a mistake. A glorious, toe-curling, multiple-orgasm mistake, but still a mistake. I don’t do this. I don’t do snowed-in flings with flannel-wearing cowboys who call me Boss Lady and kiss me like they’re staking a claim.
I have a life in Denver. A business, a reputation, and a five-year plan that definitely does not include falling for a man who thinks schedules are cute.
I’m spiraling so hard I don’t hear the door open.
“Hey.” Luke’s voice, low and careful, whispers into the quiet room.
I spin around. He’s leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, snowflakes melting in his hair.
I cross my arms like armor. “What do you want?”
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. The tack room suddenly feels tiny.
“Making sure you’re okay,” he says. “You’ve been hiding for an hour.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re freaking out.” I open my mouth to deny it. Close it.
He takes another step. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say, chin high. “It was mistletoe. Tradition. Meaningless.”
His eyes narrow. “Meaningless.”
“Exactly.”
He moves closer, slow, deliberate. “So the last two days, every time I had you screaming my name, that was meaningless too?”
Heat floods my face. “That was stress relief.”
“Stress relief,” he repeats, voice dangerously soft.
“Yes.”
He stops a foot away. “Look me in the eye and tell me you feel nothing.”
I try. God, I try. The words stick in my throat.
He waits.
I break first. “I can’t do this, Luke.”
“Do what?”
“This.” I gesture between us. “Whatever this is. I don’t—I don’t know how to be this person.”
“What person?”
“The person who lets go. Who doesn’t have a plan. Who gets snowed in and sleeps with a guy she barely knows and then—” My voice cracks. “—and then has to leave.”
His jaw flexes. “Who says you have to leave?”
“I have a life—”
“In a city three hours away that you hate half the time,” he cuts in. “I’ve heard you on the phone with your assistant. You’re burned out, Holly. You’re running on caffeine and panic and pretending it’s control.”
I flinch.
He softens. “I’m not asking you to stay forever. I’m asking you to stop pretending the last two days didn’t mean something, because they sure as hell meant something to me.”
I stare at him, chest tight.
He reaches out, brushes a knuckle down my cheek. “I’m not giving up, Boss Lady. Not unless you look me in the eye and tell me you want me to.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He nods once, like he expected it, and steps back. “Take your time,” he says quietly. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
Then he walks out, leaving me alone with the scent of leather and pine and the echo of his mouth on mine under the mistletoe. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, knees to chest.
I am so screwed.