Her rapt gaze dropped, skimming over the wide, wide shoulders draped in a chocolate cable-knit sweater, down to powerful denim-covered thighs and even lower to large feet encased in well-worn work boots. Slowly, she followed the same path back up his body, meeting his green gaze.
Wow.
“Here.” He stretched his hand out to her, palm up. “Let me help you.”
For a long moment, she stared at his hand. An instinctual sense of self-preservation screamed at her not to do it. That whatever she did, she should. Not. Touch. To do so would set in motion something she wouldn’t be able to stop. As if her body heeded that warning, she scooted back a little, pulling her arms in closer to her thighs. His eyes narrowed, sharpening.
Mistake on her part. Revealing weakness to a complete stranger.
“Thanks.” Setting her jaw, she disregarded her body’s blaring objection and laid her palm over his much bigger one. Strong fingers wrapped around hers, and he stood, drawing her to her feet in a show of negligent strength that had her breath lodging in her throat—that strength and his height. Tall didn’t cover it. Big didn’t cover it.
She’d always had a weakness for big men. Jeremy Havers, the surgeon she’d been in love with before he’d decided he loved Miami and his career more, had been tall with shoulders that would’ve made a linebacker pout in jealousy.
Even more reason to avoid this guy and touching his hands.
“Can I get that back?” He dipped his head toward the wreath still perched on her hair, a smile playing with his full lips.
Showing weakness be damned, she shuffled a step backward, planting space between them. And noticed he still held her hand.
Dammit. So much for her resolution of just seconds ago.
Uttering a sound that was somewhere between a mortified groan and a cough, she released him, taking yet another step back. She jerked the Christmas decoration off her head, wincing when the stiff leaves tugged on her hair.
“Wait. Let me help.” He shifted closer, and his scent enveloped her. Cold air, wintergreen, mint and…and beneath, a trace of an unidentifiable fragrance.
Him.
His huge chest blocked out the rest of the room—hell, the world—as he lifted his arms and carefully, gently, untangled strands of her hair from the wreath. Mortification burned inside her, debunking the myth that Black people didn’t blush. When he finally freed her, she ran her fingers over her hair, the gesture jumpy and unprecedented. She hadn’t even had this attack of…of…nerves with Jeremy on their first date at L’Espalier, where she’d been terrified of sending escargot sailing across the room à la Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.
Who was this guy?
Trouble. That’s all she needed to know. And with so much on her plate already, she didn’t have any room for trouble. Bearded and big or otherwise.
“Well, that was awkward.” Ivy appeared at Nessa’s elbow. She pinched the bridge of her nose while Ivy crossed her arms over her chest. “Who’re you?” her sister demanded.
“Sorry,” he said, the hint of a smile blooming into a full one. And whoa. That thing was the very definition of unfair practices. Or if it wasn’t, it should be. He extended his hand to Ivy. “Wolf Dennison. My parents own Kinsale Inn.”
“Wolf?” Ivy tilted her head to the side. “Like what? The animal?”
“No, like Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the composer.”
“You’re kidding,” Nessa blurted out. His gaze swung to her, and she winced. “Sorry.” Pause. “But you’re not kidding.”
“’Fraid not. My parents named all their kids after musicians and composers,” he said, shaking his head. Then that killer grin returned with an arch of a dark eyebrow. God, so much trouble. “You think my name is bad, you should hear my brothers’ and sisters’ names. I got off easy.”
“I don’t think your name is bad,” Ivy chimed in. “We learned about Mozart in school. He was awesome and a genius. He wrote over six hundred pieces of music before he died at thirty-five.”
“Thanks, kid. ’Bout time someone recognized the coolness of it.” He held his fist out, and Ivy bumped it, both doing the exploding hand and sound effect afterward.
Still smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling, he returned his focus to Nessa. And she almost asked him to switch it back to Ivy. Those eyes and the smile? Shouldn’t there be a squadron of sighing women following him everywhere he went?
“You’re checking in?” he asked. Nessa nodded. “Great. Follow me. Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. Since we were a little slow, I ran out back to grab more wreaths for the house.”
“More?” Ivy asked, drawing the word out until it stretched to about three syllables. “To put where?”
Wolf chuckled, and the low, rumbling sound reminded her of the purring engine of a muscle car. Masculine. Sexy. Ready for anything.
“You’d be surprised,” he teased, slipping past them and heading toward the desk.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
Dammit. Now the image of stressed denim hanging off his lean hips and cupping his firm ass was permanently emblazoned on her brain.
“I saw that,” Ivy half whispered, half snapped. “You so checked out his ass.”
“Language,” Nessa half whispered, half snapped back. “And I did not.”
Ivy snorted, clearly not believing her. Smart girl. Too nosy for her own good, but smart.
“All right.” Wolf flipped open a book and scanned it. “You’re either Mr. and Mrs. Calder or Nessa and Ivy Hunt. I’m going with Nessa and Ivy.”
“I’m Ivy,” her half sister volunteered. “She’s Nessa. We’re half sisters.”
Wolf nodded, studying them. His gaze drifted over her face like fingertips skimming her forehead, cheekbones, nose…lips. There went that fanciful notion again, because she could’ve sworn, she could feel his visual touch. It stirred a simmering heat deep inside her.
A heat she hadn’t experienced in five months.
She hated that heat. She’d once allowed it to convince her that men stayed. That her man, the one she’d permitted herself to imagine a future with, would be the one to stick. But while she’d been falling in love, he hadn’t. Heart versus heat. Both had sucked in the end.
So, yeah, she despised heat.
“So you’re spending the holidays together. That’s good. Family’s important.” Wolf dragged her from her admittedly bitter thoughts and turned the book around, pushing it toward Nessa. “If sometimes a pain in the ass.”
“Language,” Ivy singsonged.
For the love of… “Thanks,” Nessa said to Wolf from between clenched teeth and signed the book.
Wolf withdrew a key from a drawer and handed it over to her. “Room 2. It’s the first room right at the top of the stairs. And before I forget. Breakfast is from seven to nine every morning, you’re on your own for lunch and a buffet-style dinner is served at six. The kitchen closes at nine, but there’s always some snacks left out in case you wake up with a sweet tooth.” He rounded the desk and gestured for them to follow him up the steps. Don’t freaking look. This time she forced herself to obey. “As you might have noticed on the way into town, Rose Bend really loves Christmas.”
“You don’t say,” Ivy muttered.
“Really, Mozart? And here I thought we’d bonded over the fist bump.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the preteen. And Ivy—broody, sullen, cantankerous Ivy—grinned at Wolf’s nickname. Warmth unexpectedly blossomed in Nessa’s belly, creeping its way into her chest. Had she ever seen her half sister look like that? Not even the few times they’d seen each other before her father’s death. In this instant, Ivy was a normal, carefree girl.
“There’s a pamphlet listing all the town’s holiday activities. There’s at least one thing every night, even if it’s just a chocolate tasting at the candy store or caroling in the town
square.”
“I saw the Yulefest sign on the way in,” Nessa said. “Not that we could miss it. Is that some kind of festival?”
“More than a festival,” Wolf replied, glancing at her with that penetrating stare. “It’s a Rose Bend tradition. Thirty days of holiday events to celebrate Christmas. The whole town participates.”
Sounded…wholesome. “There are thirty-one days in December,” she pointed out.
A small smile curved the corner of his soft-looking mouth, making it appear even fuller. “Christmas Day is for spending time with family.”
“Oh. Right,” she murmured.
For years, she’d had a small but loving family with her mother. But now, she’d never see her mother’s smile or hear her laughter at their traditional gag gifts. She’d never have those Christmases again.
She blinked, dispelling the memory.
Nothing could bring back those times. Bring back her mother.
“We saw the square,” Ivy said, passing Nessa on the stairs so she climbed them beside Wolf. “And the Christmas tree. It was huge. As big as the one in Boston Common.”
“Every year, the committee finds the perfect tree at one of the farms outside of town. It’s tradition. Speaking of tradition, the lighting is tonight. It officially kicks off the Christmas season. There will be food at Town Hall afterward. You should both go.”
“I haven’t been to a tree lighting in forever! The last one was about three years ago with my da—” Ivy’s voice broke off as she froze on the top step, her fingers curling into fists by her sides.
Oh God. Nessa’s heart flew to the base of her throat. Nessa almost went to her, almost wrapped an arm around those thin shoulders. But the fear of rejection quelled the impulse. Ivy didn’t want her comfort…or Nessa.
“I’m cool. We’re probably going to be too busy unpacking and everything,” Ivy said quietly with a shrug.
Wolf peered over his shoulder at Nessa again as they cleared the second floor. And that look, as dark and mysterious as a forest and yet as sharp and incisive as a scalpel, had her nearly cringing from the intensity. She had to be careful around him. This man didn’t miss much. And seemed to sense too much, saw too deep. He had her battling the urge to splay her palms over her chest and prevent him from peering beneath skin and bone to her secrets.
She turned from him, caving to a need for self-preservation. Emotional survival. That was her number one priority.
“We don’t have to decide now,” she said to Ivy. “It kind of sounds like fun.”
Lie. It sounded like the very opposite of fun. Standing in the cold and freezing her ass off, surrounded by a bunch of strangers to watch the lighting of a tree. Give her a night of Frontier on Netflix, a glass of wine and Lisa Gardner’s latest thriller. That was fun.
But to erase that flat, hopeless tone from Ivy’s voice…to see the little girl who’d grinned up at Wolf again…
Wolf’s chin dipped in a small nod. “Are your bags in your car?”
“Yes,” Nessa said, removing the keys from her coat pocket. “I was just about to get—”
“I got it covered.” He held out his hand, palm up. “If you’ll give me your keys, I’ll bring them up.”
“That’s not necessary. I can—”
“Nessa,” he interrupted again, tone soft but firm. Too stunned by the way his deep, warm voice wrapped around her name and slid through her veins like sun-warmed molasses, she handed the keys over without a fuss. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured.
He turned and disappeared down the steps at a light jog.
“That man is hot,” Ivy muttered.
“Ivy.” Nessa glared at her.
She shrugged, totally unrepentant. “What? He is. And you’re a liar if you tell me you don’t think so, too.”
With that, Ivy grabbed the doorknob to their room, turned and entered. Leaving Nessa to stare after her.
Well, what was one more lie added on top of everything else?
She muttered a curse under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Why did she suddenly feel like this month was going to pass by in Narnia time?
Don’t miss what happens next in…
Christmas in Rose Bend
by Naima Simone
Available November 2021 wherever
HQN books and ebooks are sold.
www.Harlequin.com
Copyright © 2021 by Naima Simone
Keep reading for an excerpt from Rancher’s Christmas Storm by Maisey Yates.
Rancher’s Christmas Storm
by Maisey Yates
One
As Honey Cooper looked around the beautiful tasting room that—other than the vineyards themselves—was the crown jewel of Cowboy Wines—she thought to herself that if she had a book of matches and just a tiny bit more moxie, she might’ve burned the entire place to the ground.
Not that it could ever be said that she was lacking in moxie—maybe it was just the desire to avoid prison. Perhaps not the best reason to avoid engaging in the torching of her family winery. Scratch that, her family’s former winery.
Until it had been sold to Jericho Smith. Jericho Smith, who was the most infuriating, obnoxious, sexy man she had ever known.
He made her itch. Down beneath her skin where she couldn’t scratch it. It drove her crazy. And now he had her legacy. Just because her brothers were no longer interested in the day-to-day running of Cowboy Wines and her father wanted to retire, Jericho had offered to buy and her father had sold. Sure, she had a tidy sum of money sitting in her bank account that her father had felt was her due post sale, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t the point.
Maybe she should go find a matchbook.
Instead, she looked down at her phone—she had bought herself a smartphone with her ill-gotten rage money—and saw that it had lit up again. She had a message.
It was from Donovan. Which thrilled her a little bit.
Donovan ran an equine facility up north, on the outskirts of Portland. She had met him on a dating app. A dating app. Yes, Honey Cooper had signed up for a dating app.
But the thing was, she was really sick of the pickings down in Gold Valley. She was sick of cowboys. She was sick of everybody knowing her brothers. Her father.
Jericho.
She was untouchable here. They might as well up and put her in a glass case. Everybody acted like they were afraid of getting punched in the face if they came within thirty yards of her. In fairness, they probably were in danger of getting punched in the face. Jackson and Creed weren’t exactly known for their measured temperaments, and when it came to Jericho… Well, he was the older brother that she absolutely didn’t need.
He twisted her up in ways she hated, and had for as long as she’d noticed that boys were different from girls. Of course, the problem with knowing a man that long was that he could only see you as the pigtail-wearing brat you’d once been and would never really see you as a woman.
There was also the fact she knew all too well that Jericho’s personal policy when it came to relationships was that they were best as a good time, not a long time.
But he was just so hot.
So was Donavan though. You know, if the pictures that she had gotten from him weren’t a lie. No, they weren’t those kind of pictures. He had not sent her his nudes. She wasn’t sure if she was offended by that or not, as she had it on very good authority—TV—that men often sent women their anatomy when they wanted to hook up.
Not that they physically sent their anatomy, but pictures of them.
Still, she was on the road to getting out of Gold Valley, to getting away from the winery—without setting it on fire—and getting away from Jericho once and for all.
That was part of the problem. The proximity was killing her. She still lived at Cowboy Wines. And she
felt surrounded—absolutely surrounded—by her father’s perfidy.
So she was going to run away to Portland. Take a job at a different ranch. Maybe lose her virginity to Donovan.
No, she was definitely going to lose her virginity to Donovan.
For Christmas.
And she would forget all about Jericho and the fact that she thought he was hot. And the fact that he had devastated her by buying the winery. The winery that had been her only dream, her only goal for as long as she could remember. She’d knuckled down and worked the land, worked it till her knuckles bled, the same as the rest of them, for years. And now it was gone.
To add insult to injury, she still thought he was hot. Even while furious with him. Even while he took a new woman into his bed practically every night. Which didn’t matter.
She didn’t care about that. She didn’t care. Because she didn’t actually want to date him. She just wanted to climb him like a tree.
And who didn’t? Honestly. He was incredibly beautiful. Tall, broad and well muscled. Sin in cowboy boots. And in a cowboy hat. And a tight T-shirt. And as much as she would like to actually be sick of cowboys, it was kind of her aesthetic.
She’d lost her mother when she was only thirteen, and it had stuck with her. There was something about the loss that was a lot like the bottom of the world had fallen out, and she’d done her best to cling to what she could.
She had her dad, she had her brothers and the most important thing to her had been to fit in with them.
She knew that dealing with her in her grief had been hard for her dad so she’d done her best to be more stoic. She’d pushed off her desire to experiment with makeup or clothes or anything like that.
She’d become the cowgirl she needed to be.
But it hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Now she was ready for something else.
To see what else she could do and be.
Donovan was different. He was sophisticated. The place he ran was an equine facility. It wasn’t a ranch. She wouldn’t be a ranch hand. She would be a horse trainer. She would be fancy. She would be free.
What Happens at Christmas… Page 18