I shook my head, heat flushing my cheeks. “I can’t. These lanterns are all I have to sell. If something happens to them—if they get knocked over and stepped on or dented—I’ll have nothing left. I can’t afford to replace them.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, a spark lighting in the blue. “Lady, I work construction. I know how to handle things without damaging them. These kids have been practicing for weeks. You’re really going to let them down over the possibility of a dent or two?”
Oh, he was infuriating. Infuriatingly handsome, infuriatingly confident. And he was standing close enough that I caught a whiff of him—pine and sawdust and something so ruggedly masculine I wanted to lean closer just to breathe it in.
I folded my arms. “It’s not just a possibility. These are kids. Kids drop things. And these aren’t just pieces of metal—they’re my livelihood. Each one takes me hours to make.”
He stepped closer, leaning over the table just enough that I felt the heat radiating from his body. My heart hammered, but I stood my ground.
“What would it take?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“To get you to let us borrow them. Name your price.”
The way he said it made me bite my lip without even realizing it. His voice was deep, steady, promising.
I considered. The truth was, I needed sales, but more than that, I needed visibility. An idea sparked.
“If I’m going to risk my entire inventory to save your Christmas pageant, I want something in return,” I said.
One dark brow lifted. “I’m listening.”
“I want Mayor Pearce to mention my lanterns when she introduces the kids tonight. Tell everyone they’re handmade, and that I’m selling them at booth twelve. If I’m going to take this risk, at least give me a chance to benefit from it.”
For a long moment, he just studied me. His gaze traveled over my face slowly, lingering, like he was memorizing every feature. My lips tingled as though he’d touched them, though he hadn’t moved an inch.
Finally, he said, “Deal. And I’m staying with them the whole time. I’ll personally make sure every lantern makes it back in perfect condition.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” He extended one large, calloused hand across the display table.
I slipped mine into his, and the moment our palms met, a jolt of electricity shot through me. His hand was warm, strong, rough in a way that made me wonder how it would feel against my skin in other places.
“Wade Metcalfe,” he said, his thumb brushing across my knuckles like it belonged there.
“Brielle Goodwin,” I said, my voice sounding hoarse.
“Well, Brielle Goodwin,” he murmured, holding my gaze as if he could see straight into my soul, “looks like you just saved Christmas.”
For a second, neither of us moved. The crowd bustled around us—children laughing, music drifting from the stage—but all I could feel was his hand around mine, his thumb still stroking lightly.
And when he finally released me, it was with a look that left me shaky, wondering if this was only the beginning. Because as I watched this mountain of a man carefully lift my most delicate lantern like it was made of spun glass, I started to believe that maybe some promises really were worth keeping.
Maybe, just maybe, this Christmas wasn’t going to be like all the others.
Not for the kids.
And not for me.
2
WADE
Imight be a little obsessed with Brielle Goodwin.
Not stalker-level obsessed. If she didn’t want a thing to do with me, I’d be out of here quicker than a jackrabbit on a hot griddle. I just couldn’t get her out of my head.
