“Okay, Stanley, we’re not going to panic,” I say to my glittery snowman centerpiece, adjusting his crooked carrot nose for the third time. “So what if we have exactly seventeen minutes before the planning committee arrives and half the decorations look like they’re victims of a craft store explosion? We’ve got this.”
Stanley’s button eyes stare back at me with what I can only describe as snowman judgment. Complete snowman judgment.
The Blue Ridge Community Hall looks like Christmas threw up in the most spectacular way possible. Peppermint stick centerpieces march across folding tables in various stages of completion, fake snow drifts in corners like sugary tumbleweeds, and tinsel garland drapes from every available surface. My pop-up shop, MerRee Magic, might specialize in holiday perfection, but right now I’m drowning in candy cane chaos.
“Don’t look at me like that.” I wield my hot glue gun like a weapon of mass decoration. “This is what happens when someone decides last-minute that they need a ‘Christmas spectacular’ to rival Rockefeller Center.”
Good thing Mrs. Macey’s budget can cover such things. Her family party is going to be Christmas-tastic, because I can get this hall setup and have a planning meeting at the same time.
“No problem,” I mutter. “Nope, not—a—problem.”
I step back to survey my handiwork, accidentally backing into a tower of gift boxes that immediately topples like festive dominoes. Red and gold packages scatter across the floor, and I dive to catch a particularly expensive-looking fake present before it can take out my hot cocoa station.
“Merry everything and happy chaos.” I groan, my signature greeting falling flat when there’s no one around to appreciate my wit.
I hear the sound of heavy footsteps thundering down the hallway, followed by what sounds suspiciously like someone cursing about “idiotic meetings” and “holiday overtime.”
The community hall doors burst open with enough force to rattle the windows, and a mountain of a man charges through the doorway, still muttering under his breath. He’s got rich brown hair that’s doing that perfectly tousled thing that probably costs normal people a fortune to achieve, and he’s wearing a Blue Ridge Buffaloes jersey that’s seen better days. I can see where the shoulder pads would go, and his skates have been swapped for boots, but he’s still got that unmistakable hockey player swagger.
He’s also not watching where he’s going.
“Watch out for the—” I start to warn him about the tinselly garland I’ve strategically—and masterfully too, I might add—draped alongside the entrance, creating almost a Christmas runway that Mrs. Macey and her guests can prance down as they enter the party.
Before I can finish, his boot catches the silver strand, and suddenly we’re living in slow motion. He flails as he tries to catch his balance; his eyes go wide with the kind of panic usually reserved for penalty shots.
Then he’s airborne—and coming straight toward me.
I have exactly half a second to think, Well, this is going to hurt, before two hundred pounds of hockey player crashes into me like I’m a defender and he’s going for the winning goal.
Yelping, we go down in a tangle of limbs, fake snow, and peppermint sticks. I land on my back in what was formerly my perfectly arranged winter wonderland display, with a very large, very warm, very attractive man sprawled on top of me.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The community hall is silent except for the gentle patter of silver and white glitter settling around us like the world’s most ridiculous snowfall.
Everything hurts, but I’m looking into the most glorious pair of eyes.
They’re warm brown with little golden flecks, and they’re staring down at me with a mixture of horror and something that makes my stomach do a little flip.
Fine, a big flip.
He’s close enough that I can see the tiny scar up by his left ear and smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean that definitely didn’t come from the sporting goods store.
“Are you okay?” His voice comes out deeper than I expect, with just a hint of an accent I can’t quite place. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see the—” He waves behind him, checking over his shoulder.
“Tinsel trap?” I finish, trying to ignore the way his breath feels against my cheek as he looks at me again. “It’s fine. Though I have to say, that’s quite an entrance. Do you always tackle innocent holiday decorators, or am I special?”
A dimple appears in his left cheek when he smiles, and suddenly my brain forgets how to form coherent thoughts.
“Only the ones surrounded by enough Christmas decorations to stock Santa’s workshop,” he says, and there’s something playful in his voice that makes my pulse skip. “I’m Evan, by the way.”
Oh, I know that name. And the hockey status…
“You’re Evan Callahan.” I say his name with a bit of reverence, which causes a bit of a frown between his eyes. “I’m Ree Baxter,” I say quickly, very aware that we’re still lying in a pile of two bodies and he hasn’t moved to get up yet. “And you’re violating serious centerpiece protocol right now.”
“Centerpiece protocol?” He raises an eyebrow, and that dimple gets deeper.
“Rule number one: no tackling the decorator. Rule number two: if you tackle the decorator, you have to help clean up the mess.”
“What’s rule number three?”
“We’ll figure that out when we get there.”
He laughs—a real, genuine sound that makes something warm unfurl in my chest—and finally pushes himself up, extending a hand to help me to my feet. His palm is rough and warm, and when our fingers touch, a little jolt of electricity that has nothing to do with the static from all the fake snow zips through me.
“So,” I say, brushing glitter off my red sweater and trying to pretend my heart isn’t doing backflips. “Let me guess. You’re here for the Christmas on Ice planning meeting?”
“Guilty as charged.” He runs a hand through his hair, which only makes it more perfectly tousled. “Though I have to admit, I was expecting something a little more…” He glances around, and only Father Christmas knows what he’s thinking.
“Organized? Professional? Less likely to result in accidental takedowns?”
“I was going to say shiny.”
I snort—actually snort—and immediately want to crawl under Stanley the Snowman. But Evan’s grin just gets wider, like my complete lack of grace is somehow charming instead of mortifying.
“Well, you’ve definitely come to the right place for super shiny,” I tell him, gesturing at the chaos surrounding us. “Welcome to MerRee-Day Magic, where holiday dreams come true and only occasionally result in minor injuries.”
“Mer-Ree-Day Magic?” He tilts his head, his eyes the shiny thing now. “Clever. I like it.”
“Thanks. I’m pretty proud of that pun. It only took me three weeks and a lot of peppermint hot cocoa to come up with it.” And all that talking to myself…
“I had to have the meeting here, because I have a last-minute client doing a party in this space.”
“Sure,” he says like he wasn’t muttering under his breath only moment ago.
We start gathering up the scattered decorations, and I try not to notice the way his jersey stretches across his shoulders when he bends down to collect candy canes. Focus, Ree. You’re a professional event planner, not a teenage girl with a crush on the hockey captain.
“Oh, you’re the captain,” I say suddenly, the pieces clicking into place. “As in the new Blue Ridge Buffaloes’ captain.”
He pauses, a handful of peppermint sticks frozen halfway to the table. “You follow hockey?”
“I follow everything that happens in Blue Ridge. It’s part of the job.” I don’t mention that I also follow his Instagram because Poppy showed me his account last week and I may have spent an embarrassing amount of time scrolling through pictures of him with rescue dogs. “Plus, half the town’s been talking about the new captain who actually shows up to community events.”
“Unlike the last guy?”
“Let’s just say your predecessor thought charity work was saying the team would write a check and calling it good.”
Evan winces. “Ouch.”
“Don’t worry. You’re already winning points by actually showing up. Even if you did demolish my client’s winter wonderland in the process.”
“About that.” He holds up my hot glue gun, which now sports a very broken trigger. “I should probably fix this, right? Rule number two.”
“You really don’t have to. That looks beyond repair and glue guns are like, twenty bucks.”
Evan squeezes the trigger, aiming for a candy cane that needs reattaching to its base. What comes out is not the neat, precise line of glue I would have applied.
Instead, he manages to create what can only be described as a glue gun eruption, sending hot, thick, viscous adhesive outward in bulbous formations. Glue lands on the table, the floor, Stanley’s hat, and—most impressively—all over the front of his Buffaloes jersey.
We both stare at the sparkly, gluey mess in stunned silence.
“Well,” I finally say. “That’s one way to add some team spirit to the décor.”
Evan looks down at his jersey, now bedazzled with enough glitter to make a third grade teacher want to quit, and starts laughing. Not the polite chuckle of someone trying to be a good sport, but real, helpless laughter that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“I think,” he says between gasps. “I should stick to hockey.”
“Probably a good call. Though you do make a very festive hockey captain now.”
The community hall doors open again, and Poppy Winters sweeps in like a plus-sized holiday fairy godmother, followed by Daisy Kingston with two steaming cups of coffee and Claire O’Brien carrying what appears to be a bag of dog treats shaped like Christmas trees.
They take one look at the scene—me covered in fake snow, Evan sparkling like a very large Christmas ornament, and Stanley looking like he’s witnessed a holiday crime—and I watch three identical grins spread across their faces.
“Well, well,” Poppy says, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Looks like our Christmas on Ice planning meeting just got a lot more interesting.”
Daisy hands me one of the coffee cups—Peppermint Palooza, based on the candy cane stick garnish—and winks. “I brought extra whipped cream. Something tells me we’re going to need it.”
Claire just nods approvingly. “Chemistry,” she announces to no one in particular. “Definite chemistry.”
My cheeks heat up, and they probably match my bright pink lipstick about now. “I think you mean collision physics,” I say.
“Same thing,” all three women say in unison.
Evan clears his throat, and I notice his ears are turning red above his jersey collar. “So, about this Christmas on Ice event, I really think—”
“Yep.” Poppy claps her hands together, effectively silencing Evan, who blinks rapidly. “Ree, you’re our decoration and event specialist. Evan, you’re our hockey expert and community liaison. You two can co-lead the whole thing.”
“Co-lead?” I ask.
“Co means together,” Daisy adds oh-so-helpfully. “As in, working side by side until the event launches.”
I look over to Evan, and I don’t have a calendar in front of me, but I know Christmas on Ice launches in five days. “What happened to Jack being the community liaison?”
Poppy cocks her hip and puts one hand there. “I texted you.”
“I’ve been…busy.” I brush at a piece of fake snow that’s sticking to my sweater.
“He’s got the stomach flu,” Poppy says. “Pearlie and I are quarantining with my aunt and uncle, and we need another warm body on the committee.” She switches her gaze to Evan, her smile warming. “I can see Evan here checks his texts.”
“Mistake,” I cough-scoff, and Evan’s beautiful eyes come to me. His eyebrows go up, which so isn’t fair what with how he’s still glittering like a holiday disco ball.
He smiles, which is soft and genuine and completely unfair to my cardiovascular system. “Coach got me up-to-speed before I came over.”
“Wonderful.” I reach for my thermos of hot cocoa and take a large gulp, immediately burning my tongue. Just winter-wonderland-wonderful.
“Let’s get to it, shall we?” Claire eyes the disaster that’s still the snowscape. “I have to get back to the bakery, because I left Liam there—alone.”
“Wow, brave,” Daisy says. “But I have to get back too. Surely Ree can get Evan where she needs him.”
“I only have about thirty minutes too,” he says, and Poppy claps again, her cue for us to get to work.
She starts to regurgitate the details of Christmas on Ice for Evan while the rest of us go over our notes and say things like, “Yes, I talked to her, and Lori will be here,” or “Yes, we’ll have all the catering here by ten-thirty that morning.”
Since this is not my first meeting, I know the Christmas on Ice event backward and forward at this point, and my mind wanders slightly. I accidentally meet Evan’s eyes when he asks a question, and I swear the earth starts going backward on its axis.
I tell myself this is just a little holiday crush. A perfectly normal reaction to an attractive man who smells good and has nice eyes and looks ridiculously hot wearing a hockey jersey covered in luxury glitter.
It’s nothing serious. Nothing that can’t be managed with professional distance and a lot of deep breathing. I’m a mature, responsible business owner who’s learned her lesson about falling for athletes.
But when Evan catches my eye again and smiles that devastating princely smile, Poppy’s voice explaining the skating schedule fades to silence. My traitorous heart does a little pirouette that suggests I might be in more trouble than I think.
A lot more trouble.
