Page 8 of Tied Up In Tinsel
I laughed so hard I had to set down my coffee before I spilled it. “You’re something else.”
She responded with a smirk, running her small hands over her crazy auburn hair. Hair that matched mine identically.
In fact, she was a spitting image of me. People who saw us together never would’ve guessed someone else was involved in making her, well, besides the basic understanding of reproduction.
I closed the laptop, feeling the first real spark of holiday relief. “So you’re okay with Brooks staying here?”
Ruby hopped down from the stool, clearly over the conversation now that she’d secured her cookie and cocoa guarantees. “Yep. As long as they’re ready for slime, glitter, and me winning at every game we play.”
Something told me Brooks Bennett had no idea what they were in for.
I watched Ruby disappear back into the living room, the faint sound of a train horn picking back up as she unpaused her movie. My mind was already spinning with possibilities. Maybe this was the little holiday miracle we needed—someone fun, dependable, and willing to dive into the chaos that was our December.
If I were being honest… maybe it wasn’t the worst thing in the world thatI’dhave another adult around too. Even if it was just to have someone to talk to who didn’t try to negotiate bedtime like it was an international peace treaty.
I pulled my mug closer, staring at the little snowflakes melting on the windowpane, and let myself hope that this holiday might not turn out to be a total disaster.
Brooks
The low rumble of my truck’s engine carried me through the winding main street of Snowberry Peak, past storefronts frosted with real snow and trimmed with glittering garlands.
This place didn’t justdoChristmas—it lived it. Garlands wrapped around every light post like emerald ribbons. Wreaths hung from doors, shop windows, and even the old lamppost at the corner of Main and Pine. A faint scent of cinnamon drifted through the air from the bakery two blocks back, and everywhere I looked, people wore smiles that felt… permanent.
It was the kind of town that made you believe in Hallmark movies.
I’d been to just about every state with a rodeo worth riding in—my work had taken me to some pretty remote places—but nothing compared to the way this little mountain town seemed to hum with holiday magic.
And the best part? I’d managed to find a jobanda place to stay in one stroke of luck.
Annie Cringle, single mom and catering business owner, needed someone to watch her seven-year-old daughter during the season. Schools were out, daycares closed, and from the tone of her email, she needed help yesterday.
I’d spent most of my adult life keeping an eye on bull riders, being in the ring with them and making sure they stayed out of trouble. If I could handle a six-foot-two cowboy with a concussion and an ego, I could handle one kid. Besides, kids usually liked me—something about the mix of my size, my patience, and the fact I could juggle.
Not that you’d guess that by looking at me.
Six foot four. Built from years of manual labor. Tattoos covering almost every inch from my collarbones to my ankles. I wasn’t exactly the picture of “Mary Poppins.”
The road dipped through the valley before curling up toward the neighborhood Annie called home. Her place was easy to spot—a bright Christmas-red cape cod, its green shutters dusted with snow, bushes trimmed neat under a frosted blanket.
It wascharming. The kind of place you could picture in a snow globe.
I killed the engine and hopped down, my boots crunching into the fresh powder. In my two days here, I’d already figured out that snow in Snowberry Peak was like oxygen—everywhere, constant, and taken for granted.
Hands tucked into my jacket pockets, I made my way to the front door. The overhang shielded me from the lazy snowflakes drifting down. I pressed the doorbell, and a cheerful chime rang inside.
I turned slightly, taking in the neighborhood. Warm golden light flooded from the windows, accompanied by a pine tree in everyone’s front yard.
The sound of the door creaking open spun me back around.
And there she was.
Five foot two, standing barefoot in the doorway like she’d just come from the kitchen. Auburn hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Big eyes I swear I’d recognize anywhere.
She looked at me like she’d seen a ghost.
Her lips parted, then curved—not in a smile, but in something halfway between shock and disbelief.
“How the hell did you find where I lived?” she asked.
