Page 7 of Jingle Bell Flock
I didn’t know what labels he used, but once upon a time, he’d told me I was the most beautiful person he’d ever laid eyes on, and part of me desperately wanted him to think that again. If it took sacrificing my Ralph Lauren to Comet’s fascination with eating clothing, then so be it.
I dressed quickly, catching my reflection in the mirror mounted on the wall across the room. I had flour on my face, and my hair was sticking up in a few different directions.
Great. Very attractive.
I stepped into my en-suite bathroom, flipping on the light and bracing my hands on the counter. My reflection looked … not great.
Tired. Stressed. And maybe a little bit hopeful.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I told myself, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water on my face to get rid of the flour streaks. “It’s a photoshoot for promotional content. That’s all.”
My reflection didn’t look entirely convinced.
I grabbed a hand towel, dried my skin, then reached for my brush and tried to tame my hair into something resembling a hairstyle.
“He’s not going to care what you look like,” I continued, pointing the brush at myself in the mirror. “He’s going to take the pictures, leave the second he’s done, and pretend this never happened.”
That was all likely true, but even as I said it, I couldn’t forget the way Jeremy’s eyes had lingered on that photo. The way his whole body had gone still, like seeing us together and happy, had hit him somewhere he wasn’t prepared for.
“No,” I muttered with a shake of my head, setting down the brush and giving myself one last long look. “You’re reading into things that aren’t there. This needs to stop.”
My reflection stared back at me with something that looked suspiciously like pity.
I turned off the light and headed back downstairs, my heart beating fast while I waited for Jeremy to get back with his camera.
three
. . .
JEREMY
This was a terrible idea.Going back to Harrison’s house alone, without the planned buffer of teenagers or my sister’s meddling presence to spend the next couple of hours photographing him while pretending I wasn’t affected by him was basically signing up for torture.
But we needed the content. The event was next weekend, and without photos for Instagram and Winterberry Farm’s Facebook page, we’d have nothing to draw people in. Jemma was counting on me. Thefarmwas counting on me.
And if I was being honest—which I tried very hard not to be—some pathetic part of me wanted an excuse to be near Harrison again.
Even if it hurt.
Especiallybecause it hurt.
The hurt was good. It reminded me of all the ways he was bad for my well-being.
I grabbed my camera bag, checked that my battery was fully charged, and headed back out into the cold. Snow was falling steadily now, fat flakes that melted against my face. The wind had picked up, too, and by the time I reached the fence that separated our land from Harrison’s, my nose was numb.
The walk gave me time to think. To remind myself this was business. Professional. I was a photographer—well, a washed-up hockey player turned Christmas tree farmer who dabbled in photography—and Harrison was my model. That was all.
The fact that my heart was racing had nothing to do with seeing him again. It was just the cold. The exertion.
Sure it is, you fucking liar.
By the time I reached Harrison's porch, I was covered in snow and my fingers were numb. I knocked on the door and waited.
The door opened almost immediately, showing Harrison backlit by the warm glow of his living room, wearing dark jeans and a cream-colored sweater that made him look like he’d stepped out of a goddamn Ralph Lauren commercial.
My mouth went dry. I’d always liked my men pretty.
“Hey,” he said, moving aside. “Come in before you freeze to death.”
