Chapter 9
Eb
The drive home feels longer than twenty minutes.
Maybe it’s the silence.
Maybe it’s the ghost of her laughter still rattling around in my head.
By the time I pull into the underground garage of my high-rise, the empty echo of my penthouse is already pressing against my chest.
All glass, chrome, and concrete.
Perfect. Polished. Cold.
It’s everything a man like me is supposed to want—and yet, for the first time, it feels like a damn mausoleum.
No lights twinkling in the windows.
No garland.
No pine.
No cookies.
No Marigold.
I throw my keys on the counter and stare at the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the woods behind my house.
The skyline glows like a jewel box, but there’s no warmth in it.
“Yeah,” I mutter to no one. “This place could use some life.”
I crack open my laptop and start searching. I tell myself it’s about the upcoming gala, that maybe a little festive décor will impress clients or whatever—but deep down, I know better.
I’m feeling this way because I want her to see this place.
To like it.
Hell, to like me.
When I stumble across a luxury landscaping and design company that also offers “Full-Service Holiday Transformations,” my Badger perks up.
Perfect.
Wreaths, trees, twinkle lights, garland—the whole Christmas circus.
I don’t even read the pricing.
I just hit Contact Us and type a message, like a man possessed.
Need full holiday interior and exterior design ASAP. Must be done by Friday night. Client prefers a warm, inviting atmosphere—traditional with a hint of whimsy.
Money is no object. Time is everything.
Eb Rogers
Send.
Satisfied, I grab my phone and scroll to the one app that’s been driving me insane all week.
Date to Mate.
The little red notification sparkles with a new message bubble from Honey.
God, I love that nickname more than I should.
I tap the chat window.
Me
I wanted to thank you for coming to dinner with me tonight.
It takes a full minute before she replies.
Honey
Oh sure. Um, are you canceling our match now? Is that why you signed on?
What the heck? Oh, hell no. Time to settle this.
Me
What? No! I told you, Honey—I made a mistake. And for that, I wholeheartedly apologize. But I’m not ready to walk away from this.
Another pause. I can picture her now, biting her lip, narrowing those amber eyes at her phone.
Honey
Eb, I really had a good time, but forgive me for being blunt. I just don’t want to waste time on someone who isn’t interested.
The Badger inside me growls.
Not interested?
She has no idea just how interested I am.
Me
I am interested, Marigold. And I’ll prove it.
Honey
How?
I smirk.
Me
At the gala. You’ll see. Meanwhile, can’t we just talk for a bit? What’s the harm?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Then appear again.
Honey
Fine. Here’s my number. Just text me sometime, okay? Maybe we can be friends.
Friends.
The word hits like a sucker punch to the ribs.
My beast snarls, claws scraping at the inside of my chest.
Friends? She’s ours. Claim her. Now.
“Not yet,” I mutter aloud. “We do this her way.”
I copy her number.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, then I start typing a text message to her cell number, which I promptly save.
Me
Friends it is. For now. But, Honey, I plan to be more.
I don’t hit send.
Not yet.
Instead, I sit back, watching the reflection of the moon as snow dances across the night sky. I turn and take in the expanse of my home.
This place is so big for just me.
But it’s perfect for a family. A family I can finally imagine having now that I’ve met Marigold.
Tomorrow, I’ll send it.
Tomorrow, I’ll start proving it.
Because one way or another—by the gala, by the new year, by whatever it takes—I’m going to make Marigold Santos mine.
Even if it kills me.
My phone buzzes on the counter, shattering the moment. I glance down, see the name, and groan.
Ugh. Bobby.
I swipe to answer. “What?”
“Hey, bro!” His voice is way too chipper for this hour. “How’s it going? So, you think you can pick me up before Uncle Uzzi’s Holiday Gala on Friday—”
“No,” I say flatly, and hang up.
He immediately calls back.
I decline.
Calls again.
Decline.
Third time.
“Persistent little shit,” I mutter, answering just to get it over with. “What now?”
Bobby chuckles.
“Damn, someone’s grumpy. Didn’t get enough sleep? Or was it that your little Date to Mate match kept you up all night thinking dirty thoughts?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting. You’re practically glowing through the phone, man. You like her.”
“She’s—” I stop, because I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
She’s everything.
She’s chaos. She’s warmth. She’s honey and fire and cinnamon sugar rolled into one woman who’s entirely too good for me.
“She’s different,” I finally say.
Bobby hums knowingly.
“Yeah, different. That’s what you say right before you buy matching Christmas pajamas and start saying ‘we’ instead of ‘I.’”
“Goodbye, Bobby.”
He’s laughing as I hang up again.
But even as I shut off my phone and head to bed, his words echo in my head.
Different.
Yeah. She is.
Different. Special. Perfect.
And mine.
Which is exactly why I can’t stop thinking about her.
I don’t sleep much that night. I’m up early, pacing my penthouse with a mug of black coffee and checking my email compulsively.
The decorators confirmed the job—apparently, they’re sending in a small army of Christmas elves to turn my place into a Hallmark fever dream before Friday.
Perfect.
Maybe she’ll actually like it.
By ten a.m., I’ve not only showered, shaved, and avoided my office, but I’ve had my secretary reschedule everything on my calendar for next week.
I tell myself a hundred times that showing up unannounced at her bakery is not a good idea.
But by ten-fifteen, I’m already halfway there.