“Looking for something?” Simon’s deep baritone sent a shock through my body, and I nearly rammed my head into a drawer.
The tips of my fingers snagged the wheel, and I shimmied out from beneath the desk. I held up the wheel while sheepishly smoothing the edge of my skirt.
“Sorry. I was delivering the poinsettias, and the cart revolted. Let me get yours.” The back of my neck heated as I scrambled past Simon and snagged the last potted plant. I inhaled a calming breath and whirled to find him standing behind me.
Simon's mouth curled into a sexy grin. “You’re Sage’s friend, right? Something that starts with a D? I always see you around the office.”
“D—Delia, Delia Frost,” I stammered, holding out the plant while trying not to squeal with the knowledge he knew my name.Sort of.Starts with a D should count.
He waved away the poinsettia, and his smile deepened, crinkling his blue eyes. “Congrats on getting your first case. I just heard this morning.” He winked. “Take my plant. You might need it to decorate your new office.”
I tucked the poinsettia against my chest, my heart pounding. It was happening! Things were falling into place faster than snowflakes during a blizzard.
“Um, thanks...” My tongue twisted and my brain screamed—“Don't mention the fortuneteller or the gingerbread massacre. Keep the fact that he smells like a holiday-spiced candle to yourself.”
But say something!
When I remained woefully silent, Simon leaned forward and plucked the wheel from my fingers.
“Let me help you with that, Dhalia.”
Wait…My brow creased.
“It’s Delia,” I murmured, but he wasn't paying attention.
Simon bent and placed the wheel near the cart, then with a flick of magic, he reattached it. Lifting the edge of the cart, he spun the wheel easily.
“All fixed. I guess I’ll be seeing you more often if we’re going to be office mates. Hey, maybe we can even grab lunch sometime.”
Simon flashed me his teeth and strode down the hall, leaving me hugging the poinsettia.Cloud Nine here I come.We were going to grab lunch—sometime.
I wheeled the cart smoothly toward the supply closet, then practically floated back to my desk. Nothing could burst this moment. Not even Simon’s lousy memory when it came to my name. He'd gifted me with his holiday plant. The gorgeous red leaves brightened my postage stamp-sized cube—without a window or any semblance of a view.
Agatha pulled an earbud from her ear. “Where did you get those? I hope you didn’t steal them from the cart. They’re for the agents.”
I rubbed a velvety leaf between my thumb and forefinger and shrugged. “Simon gave them to me. He’s so thoughtful.”
Agatha snorted and tapped out a few words on her laptop. “I think you mean he’s so allergic. He chucks them in the bin every year.”
My shoulders slumped. Would he have thrown them away? I flipped open my laptop, shaking off my disappointment, and opened my email. I located one from Sage containing the details of my case. Things were different now, and I refused to let Agatha get to me. Maybe Simon threw out his poinsettia every year, but not this year. This year, he gave it to me.
It was symbolic.
A sign.
An early Christmas gift from the universe, and I wasn’t one to turn away a gift.
Ignoring Agatha’s negativity, I double-clicked on the email from Sage and opened the case file. My eyes widened at the target’s profile photo. A buzzing in my ears drowned out the office noise.
“Well, hello, Jack Bradley,” I murmured under my breath.
The photo was candid and taken while he stood among an overgrown patch of pine trees. Wearing a blue checkered flannel shirt, dark jeans, and black work boots, he appeared at home in his surroundings. The wind tousled his raven-black hair, and his sturdy hands gripped an axe, resting it against one of his broad shoulders.
There wasn’t a casualness in his stance, and his face seemed set in stone. His stubble-covered jaw was clenched in a frown, lips flat as if the pine trees had done him wrong and were about to meet their maker. But his eyes told a different story. There was a vulnerability there. Some raw emotion bound tightly beneath his rugged frame.
He looked like he needed to laugh, but also as if any hint of a joke might send his axe swinging.
My gaze dropped from Jack’s photo to his detailed brief. He lived in the small town of Wood Pine and owned an inn and a derelict Christmas tree farm that had both seen better days.
