Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Here, here!” I clink my glass against hers before downing the last of my drink, signaling Reg for another round as I add, “I love the holidays. The more carols, the better. And throw in some Mariah Carey while you’re at it.”
She blinks, looking surprised. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Most people I know hate that song. Even my mother’s sick of it.”
I shake my head. “Not I, not sick at all. Let’s get in the spirit, Red. Just let me find some coins.” As I dig in my pockets with one hand, I extend the other. “I’m Olly, by the way.”
She clasps my palm, and I can’t help but notice how soft her skin feels against mine. “Emily. Emily Darling.”
“Darling,” I murmur. “Any relation to the family from Peter Pan?”
“No, but my grandmother did have a Saint Bernard when I was growing up. She let me call her Nana even though her real name was Eleanor,” she says with a self-conscious roll of her eyes that makes her look younger, vulnerable, and very sweet.
Sweet is…problematic.
I don’t usually mix casual and sweet.
Feisty and casual? Yes.
Fiery and casual? Always.
But sweet is a good way to wade into deeper waters than would be wise in this situation.
I strongly suspect Emily Darling isn’t here to stay.
“As you should have,” I agree. “Nana is the perfect name for a Saint Bernard. So, you’re here for business? Business with some sort of floral, party planning component, judging from the context clues?”
“Yes.” Her fingers tighten around her beer. “I’m pitching a gala concept to a high-profile client in a few days. I was hoping to have Belinda on lock as the floral designer before that happened, but…” She sighs. “I’ll start reaching out to my backup florists tomorrow. I’m hoping I can make amends and convince Belinda to give me another chance, but just in case…”
“Always good to have a backup,” I agree, silently thinking I might be able to help her out with Belinda.
But that’s a thing we can both worry about later. Before we go our separate ways, I’ll offer to intervene with Belinda as a balm to my swift goodbye.
Because I will have to say goodbye.
And swiftly.
I can already tell that more than one night with Emily Darling would have me feeling things that could become painful, considering there’s usually an ocean between us.
I don’t do long-distance relationships. I’m not the kind of person who can pull off that sort of thing without a pitiful amount of pining. I don’t fall often, but when I do, I fall hard.
But one night is fine.
Assuming Emily is interested in letting me make further amends in private…
I try my vest pocket and finally produce a handful of coins. “Here we go. Let’s give this place some proper holiday atmosphere, darling Darling. But please, do try not to injure yourself on the way to the jukebox.”
She winks. “I’ll try, but no promises.” She slides off her stool, hips swaying temptingly beneath her rumpled skirt as she crosses the pub.
I watch her lean over the machine, auburn curls falling forward as she studies the selections, wishing we were alone so I wouldn’t have to limit my admiration of her curves to a quick, cursory glance. A moment later, the first triumphant notes of “All I Want for Christmas” boom through the pub’s surprisingly fabulous speakers, and she turns back to me with a grin that’s a direct hit.
Damn, that smile…
And that’s it.
The moment I should have known that I was in trouble.
Bloody serious trouble…
Chapter Four
EMILY
I’m not this girl.
I’m really not.
I haven’t been on a date—not even a casual one—since Stephen broke up with me over WhatsApp last summer. I can’t remember the last time I stayed up past ten for anything but work, rarely drink, and have never, repeat never, picked a man up at a bar.
I’m a “meet through friends” or on a dating app person. I like a guy who’s been vetted—either by mutual acquaintances or by me, via several days of intense texting and stalking of his social media.
But here I am, two beers in with a sexy British stranger with mischievous blue eyes and a panty-melting accent even better than Colin Firth’s. And not only am I allowing him to buy me a third beer before I beat him at another game of rummy, I’m pressing my knee against his under the table and hardly thinking about the nativity fiasco at all.
I’m even considering asking Olly back to my hotel for a nightcap when the pub closes, and I don’t even know his last name.
That therapist who thought I was too uptight and controlling would be so proud.
Or concerned.
Maybe both!
But for some reason, that suddenly feels exciting instead of terrifying.
“Gin,” I purr, laying my cards down with a flourish.
“Again?” Olly groans, but he’s smiling as he adds, “You’ve hustled me, haven’t you?”