Page 25 of Tied Up In Tinsel
Instead, I insisted on doing the dishes. He put up a fight, of course, but I refused to back down. Eventually, Brooks relented, only after extracting a trade-off—spiked cider, a Christmas movie, and my company on the couch.
And that’s how I ended up here. He sat beside me, stretched out like he owned the place, socked feet on the coffee table. His long arm rested lazily along the back of the couch, mug in hand, while some classic holiday film played in the background. His low chuckle followed a funny line on-screen, and the sound curled through me, warm and dangerous.
I hated Christmas. Well—hatewas a strong word. Maybedeeply disliked.
It was ironic, really. I lived in a town where the holiday wasn’t just a season; it was an identity. Snowberry Peak didn’t let December end when the calendar did. No, people here found ways to drag the spirit through the rest of the year. Lights twinkled in June. Cinnamon-scented candles burned in August. Someone was always humming a carol, even in September.
Brooks tilted his head toward me. “How were things today?” His voice was low, easy, like the question wasn’t just polite—it mattered.
He lifted his mug, taking a slow sip. His dark hair was a little unruly, still messed from earlier when Ruby had shoved a glittery tiara on his head during their tea party. And God, I couldn’t get that image out of my mind.
A mountain of a man, covered in tattoos, wearing a princess gown with the zipper stuck halfway down his muscled back,sipping from a doll-sized teacup. The memory made my stomach flip.
I’d always had a thing for men with tattoos. Big. Strong. The kind who looked like they could throw me over their shoulder without breaking a sweat. My ex-husband had been the opposite of everything I’d ever wanted, and maybe that should have been my first red flag.
Now, sitting here for the second night in a row with Brooks, I was in real danger. Danger of giving in to the pull I felt every time I looked at him. Last night, I’d had to bite my lip not to climb into his lap, not to peel off those clothes and lose myself in him.
And tonight? Tonight was even worse.
I was insanely attracted to my nanny.
“I have a feeling each day is going to get harder,” I finally said, swirling my cider before taking a sip. “The mayor’s a mess. He’s convinced the whole event is going to collapse if we don’t add more food options.”
Brooks let out a low whistle. “What do you have on the menu now?”
I held up my hand, ticking off each dish with my fingers. “Seafood mac and cheese. Bone-in ham. Steak sliders. Caprese sandwiches. Smoked turkey. And about a dozen sides.”
“Sounds like a feast.”
“Itisa feast,” I said, groaning. “But now he wants more. I’ve been running myself ragged chasing vendors for the best products. He refuses to settle for anything less than perfect. And today, I spent half the afternoon chasing him through the ski lodge because he couldn’t stop fussing about where every single table was going to be for a moment to have a conversation with me.”
Brooks chuckled, low and easy, but the sound warmed me.
“I swear,” I muttered, leaning my head against the back of the couch, “my feet are still throbbing from running circles around that place. Tomorrow, I’ll be back at the lodge, training the waitstaff, finalizing layouts, and making sample plates with the head chef. And everything needs to be done by the time I walk through the door.”
I blew out a frustrated breath. The cider was softening the edges of my stress, but only just.
The truth was, the annual holiday gala at the Snowberry Peak ski lodge was the biggest event of the year. Elegant, lavish, the kind of thing that kept my catering business thriving. But it also came at a price. Every detail had to be flawless. And that pressure was only magnified by the mayor’s impossible standards. Why I said yes to catering it this year was beyond me. Apparently, I enjoyed punishment.
Brooks leaned forward, setting his mug down on the coffee table with deliberate ease. His gaze flicked to me, an infuriatingly cocky grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Come on,” he said, waving toward his lap.
“Come what?” I narrowed my eyes at him, suspicious.
“Gimme your feet.”
I blinked. “No. God, no.”
“Annie,” he drawled, his voice low and persuasive, “give me your feet.”
“Absolutely not. Are you a madman?”
“Nope,” he replied, utterly unbothered. “I consider myself the opposite, actually. Perfectly level-headed. Now quit arguing and give me your damn feet.”
Before I could launch into a protest, his hand shot out and caught my ankle. With a quick tug, he laid my foot across his lap like it belonged there. The warmth of his palm seared through my sock, and before I could stop myself, a tiny sound—half sigh,half moan—slipped out when his thumb pressed against my arch.
“Oh, wow.”
