Chapter 1
Holly
This time of year just seems to hit differently. The decorations. The carols. The lights. The holiday bliss that drips from every surface. The love that somehow manifests from every decked-out window and shop front. The smiles. The food…
It’s the only time of year that has a feel to it.
New Year’s? Meh.
Easter? Whatever.
Halloween? Who cares?
None of those holidays ever affected me on a molecular level like Christmas did. For as long as I could remember, this time of year was the meaning of love and family. It was magical. Beautiful. From leaving cookies and milk out for Santa as a child, to helping my parents decorate the house and cut down a tree, I had always had such a powerful love of Christmas. Not even in my questionable teenage years had I lost that love; it always seemed to snap me out of whatever funk I was in. Even my emo phase had halted the second I dragged my favourite Christmas sweater out of the closet, dusting off the bright reds, greens and golds for another festive season. Maybe if Evanescence had made a holiday album, I might have held on a little longer.
Probably not.
I just loved it.
And I thought that maybe I’d have that feeling forever, regardless of what life or love (or lack thereof) threw at me.
But here I was, three weeks out from the big night where Santa squeezes down chimneys and eats his weight in cookies, and I’m sitting alone in a bar, glass of Moscato in one hand and some frosted-looking cocktail in another, wondering when my latest swipe right will show his face (he is four minutes late, and counting).
I was single, had been for a while. Eleven months, to be exact. And I was fine about it. Absolutely fucking peachy about it, that was until early-November when Christmas decorations started going up and carols started playing in the shopping centres. Then suddenly, for the first time likely in my twenty-eight years, I found myself not looking forward to my favourite holiday. My siblings were all married. They all had kids. Christmas had been invigorated on a level for them that only children could be held responsible for. My parents, now in grandparent mode, couldn’t wait to wrap all of the toys they’d spent all year gathering, and I was left suddenly in a pathetic state of depression where the thought of waking up on Christmas morning—alone—in my one-bedroom apartment made me feel like I’d wrongly judged the Grinch my whole life.
At least he had a dog. I didn’t even have that.
I wiped my thumb across the wineglass’s condensation, marvelling at my red-tipped, mistletoe manicure. It matched my red dress—not that anyone could see it right now underneath my black coat. I refused to take my coat off before my date had even arrived. At least this way, if he didn’t show (like the last one didn’t), I could slip out of this bar without the embarrassment of showing off a dress that clearly suggested I was not sitting in the Potted Pine for a simple solo nightcap.
The Grinch would never have used Tinder, but the Grinch (AKA: Me) was lonely as fuck and had spent the last four weeks going on dates as if they were two-dollar rides at the local fair. I didn’t expect a boyfriend before Christmas Day, but maybe a love interest who’d stay the night after several meaningful dates and who’d leave me a present under the tree…maybe a new scarf or a piece of jewellery that didn’t say ‘I love you’ so much as ‘I really like you and I thought of you when I saw this at Tiffany’s’...
“I can’t figure out if you’re worried you’ve done something to upset your drink, or your drink has done something to upset you.”
I sat up straight, not even realising that I’d been gradually slouching in my bar stool as the minutes had passed, and glanced to my right where the male voice had come from.
“Excuse me?” The words were out of my mouth before my eyes had even locked on the owner of said voice, and—
Fuck.
Said voice owner was handsome. No—gross; I hated the word handsome—I hated it for this guy, anyway. He was…really fucking gorgeous.
“You’ve been staring at those drinks for the last ten minutes, and it’s almost like they are upsetting you?”
He was tall (Yes, I could tell that even when he was sitting on a barstool. It’s a talent), with dark hair, a square jaw, trimmed beard and dark eyes. He was all kinds of broad shoulders and thick chest (Yes, even with a jacket on, I can tell these things).
“It’s been five minutes, actually. Not ten.”
“Sorry, that is completely different then. I apologise.”
“Apology accepted.”
The corner of his mouth kicked up in the suggestion of a smile, and—god damn, is that a dimple?
A large hand extended to me, attached to a large arm, which was connected to a large shoulder. “Nick.”
I stared at it for a moment before reaching out with my own not so large hand. “Holly.”
“Holly, as in boughs of?”
His giant paw wrapped around my hand as he shook it, and I found myself smiling as I nodded.
“Nick, as in Saint?”
He shrugged as his grip released me. “Not something I’m often accused of being, but in the spirit of the festive season, yes.”
No. I didn’t imagine with that face and sinful voice that he was very saintly at all.
“So, which one was it?”
My eyebrow arched in question as I stared at the handso—gorgeous stranger.
“Which drink offended you? The cocktail or the wine?”
“Oh.” I glanced at the drinks, both untouched. “Tonight? Neither, but over the years? Both.”
“Deep.”
I sighed, my gaze sliding to my watch as I lifted the Moscato to my lips.
“Expecting someone?”
Yeah. Eight minutes ago.
“A date,” I answered, lowering my glass to the bar.
“Late?”
I nodded.
“First date?”
Another nod.
“How late?”
“Eight—no, nine minutes.”
Nick cringed.
“He’s got one more minute before I bail,” I said, taking another sip from my wine. “Ten minutes late without a message is where I draw my line of dignity.”
“I’d say that’s ten minutes too long. You’re too kind.”
My eyes slid to Nick again. There was an empty chair between us, but somehow his size and presence devoured the space.
“You never know, Adam Adams could be the love of my life, and I’d risk throwing it all away for ten minutes.”
“Adam Adams?”
“Yeah. Look, it’s not ideal. But Holly Adams has a nice ring to it, and his photo is quite pleasant.”
Nick extended his hand again, palm facing up as he looked at me. “Show me.”
I glanced around the bar, then my gaze slid back to Nick. “Show you?”
“Show me Mr Adams’ photo. I’m pretty good at reading people.”
“Reading people from just a photo?”
He nodded, hand still extended, fingers flexing with impatience.
With a dramatic sigh, I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone. The Tinder app was already open (with no messages from Adam), and I clicked on his photo, enlarging it before passing the device over.
He cringed, then followed it up with pursed lips and a raised brow.
“That bad, huh?”
The gorgeous man nodded as he passed the phone back. “He’s got cheesy one-liners and leering gazes written all over him.”
I scoffed. “Really?”
“Yep. And ten minutes was being generous. He’s never been on time a day in his life.”
“Wow. You’re really good at this.”
“I know.”
“You could also be completely wrong.”
“Unlikely.”
My eyes narrowed, resulting in a broad smile taking over Nick’s face.
Stuff my stockings and call me turkey—dimples. The smug prick has perfect dimples.
“Well, I’m done with cheese and leers. And I think that if this date goes the way the last few have gone, I’m done with dating altogether.”
“Last few? This is a regular thing you do?”
“Thing, as in meet some guy at a bar, realise he is a loser, go home by myself via the ice cream shop and cry myself to sleep? Then yes, I guess you could say it’s regular.”
“Hm.”
“What?”
Nick shrugged. “Nothing.”
I rolled my eyes as I lifted my wineglass to my lips. “Say it.”
“You’re what, twenty-five?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Yeah. You’re young. Why put so much pressure on yourself, especially this time of year?”
“A. I’m not young; twenty-eight is practically archaic for a single female, and B. This time of year is exactly why I’m putting pressure on myself. Who wants to be alone for Christmas?”
“Me.”
I shrugged. “You’re a guy. It’s different.”
“Why?”
Hm, good question. “I actually don’t know. I was hoping you’d just agree with me and change the subject.”
“What do you do for work, Holly?”
I blinked, staring at Hot Stranger blankly.
“I’m changing the subject…”
Oh. “I’m a business owner.”
“Cryptic.”
“And what about you, Nick?”
Giant shoulders that were clad in a perfectly fitted leather jacket shrugged. “I’m a business owner, too.”
Touche.
I leaned forward, chin resting on my hand. “And what brings you to this—”
“Yo, Boss. Max said the delivery has finally arrived.”
Both Nick and I glanced across the where one of the bar tenders popped his head out from the kitchen.
“I’ll be there in a sec.”
Nick looked back at me and I raised an eyebrow. “Boss?”
He shrugged.
“You own a business. You own this business?”
“I do.”
I smiled. I couldn’t help myself. I’d been coming here for years and would have remembered if I’d seen Nick before. He was not a man you’d easily forget.
“If you’ll excuse me for five minutes, I need to see to a matter—”
“Please, go. Do your boss thing.” I glanced at my watch again, sighing, “I should really be heading to the ice cream shop anyway.”
I might have been mistaken, but I could have almost sworn Nick looked torn between tending to his delivery and tending to…me.
“Five minutes,” he said. He pushed himself up out of the barstool (yep, tall as fuck) and rested his hand on the bar as he leaned towards me. I inhaled deeply. He smelt of leather and spice. He smelled like a man should. “If Adam Adams hasn’t arrived by then, I’ll shout you that ice cream.”
I smiled faintly as I stared up at him. Dammit, Judas, why did he have to be so god-damn gorgeous?
“You shouldn’t keep Max waiting, Boss,” I answered, fluttering my lashes sweetly.
There was no way I’d still be here in five minutes if my date didn’t show. I was better than that. I planned to leave the second Nick was out of eyesight, and I think he knew it.
Nick grunted, dark eyes darting to the kitchen and back. “Five minutes.”
“Bye, Nick.”
Another grunt, and he pushed off the bar. I stared down at my drinks, refusing to look at him again out of fear of losing the last hint of respect I had for myself. I felt it the second he walked away, then when the leather jacket disappeared out the back, I grabbed my purse and rose from the barstool, only to come face to face with—
“Oh. Adam, hi.”
