Chapter 8
Eb
Dinner ends way too fast.
I tell myself it’s because the food was good—perfect, actually—but I know better.
It’s her.
Marigold Santos.
My pretty little holiday Honey.
Curvy, clever, maddeningly confident.
Every time she laughs, something inside me loosens. Every time she talks, I forget whatever grumpy thought I was trying to hold onto.
And now we’re walking side by side down the snow-dusted sidewalk, the scent of ginger, sake, and sugar clinging to her skin like temptation incarnate.
She’s bundled in her camel coat, cheeks pink from the cold, curls escaping her knit hat.
And I—I’m doomed.
Completely, spectacularly doomed.
“Okay, admit it,” she says, nudging me with her shoulder. “You liked the ramen.”
I grunt. “It was acceptable.”
“Acceptable?” she gasps, mock-offended. “You practically inhaled it! But I gotta give you props, you did it without slurping.”
“Badgers eat fast,” I deadpan.
“Oh my God, you’re blaming your animal now?”
“Instinct,” I tell her, and when she rolls her eyes, I catch her hand before I can stop myself.
Her fingers are small, warm, and she looks up at me like I’ve just broken some invisible rule.
Maybe I have.
But I don’t care.
Because this—all of this—feels good. It feels right.
“Instinct’s a powerful thing, Honey,” I murmur, stepping closer.
The snow is falling harder now, catching in her dark curls and glinting under the soft gold glow of the lampposts.
The whole street looks like something out of a Christmas movie—romantic, perfect, too damn easy to lose yourself in.
She licks her lips, and my control cracks clean down the middle.
“Eb,” she warns, voice breathy.
I lean down, close enough to see the tiny flecks of amber in her brown eyes.
“Yeah?”
“This probably isn’t a good idea.”
Her heart is beating harder now. Or maybe that’s mine. Hell, I’d wager it’s both.
“Probably not.”
And then I kiss her.
Soft at first. Testing.
But when she exhales this quiet, desperate sound—half sigh, half surrender—I lose it.
The taste of her is pure sin and cinnamon sugar.
Her hands clutch the lapels of my coat, pulling me closer, and I growl low in my throat because, fuck, this woman is everything I didn’t know I was missing.
For a second—maybe two—I forget about everything.
The app. The date contract. The holidays. The gala. The ridiculous fate-twisting magic that shoved us together.
It’s just us.
Her heartbeat against my chest.
My mouth devouring her soft little sounds.
The world fading to snow and heat.
When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing hard, our foreheads still touching.
“Eb,” she whispers, shaky. “You can’t just—”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “But I needed to.”
Her brow furrows. “Needed to what?”
“To prove to myself this isn’t a mistake.”
She blinks up at me, uncertainty flickering in her gaze.
Then she takes a step back, wrapping her coat tighter.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Rogers,” she says quietly. “I’ve heard enough of those for one lifetime.”
Her words sting, but I deserve that.
“I’m not like the others, Marigold.”
“Maybe not,” she says, frowning softly. “But I’ve learned not to trust sudden changes of heart—especially when they come with a billion-dollar grimace and a Badger growl.”
Ouch.
We turn and find ourselves by the truck.
I open the passenger door for her, my hand on her waist as she steps on the runner.
She hesitates, then slides in, avoiding my gaze.
The drive back to her bakery is quiet except for the steady hum of the heater and the faint strains of a jazzed-up Christmas song on the radio.
When I park in front of The Cookie Hive, she turns to me, that same uncertainty still clouding her expression.
“Thanks for dinner,” she says softly.
“Anytime,” I answer, meaning it.
She gives me one last, searching look, then opens the door.
And as she steps out into the snow, I know exactly what I have to do.
Because if Marigold Santos thinks I’m just some coldhearted CEO with a temporary case of holiday spirit—then it’s up to me to prove her wrong.
Even if it means letting the Badger off the leash to do it.