Chapter 11

I ’ve skied my whole life, ridden horses, kayaked down the Roaring Fork River. I’m relatively fit, even if I am currently living off sugar.

But it’s been two days since I had sex with Alex, and I’m still sore. Everywhere.

My thighs burn as I attempt to bend down and pick up a box filled with the bakery tote bags so I can refill the shelf. It’s hard, but I manage.

Reaching up to thread them onto the hook? Impossible.

Don’t get me started on the tree store yesterday; I could barely lift the large wreaths, let alone help anyone get a tree to their waiting cars. Customers had to help themselves.

With a loud groan, I drop the box on the counter and swipe away the hair falling in my eyes.

“Oh, come on . You’re not still complaining about a night of amazing sex?”

I spin around to Saylor transferring a tray of Christmas cookies to the shelf. I told her about Alex yesterday morning. She wanted every little detail, and honestly, I gave it up to her. I spilled my guts like a pi?ata. I had to. I needed to . Until I spoke the words out loud, I couldn’t be sure I hadn’t imagined the entire evening.

Because it was unbelievable.

“I’m not complaining about the sex. I’m easing through the pain in my body. I’m sore .”

She rolls her eyes. “This is why you need to have sex more often.”

“Yeah, and when exactly am I supposed to find the time?” I catch myself before I yawn, because also…I’m tired . And not just from the unbelievable sex.

“You make time, Haven. Like everyone.” She switches the empty tray out with a full one. “Don’t see me creaking around like an old lady, do you? No, because I keep myself in sex-ready shape.”

My eyes roll to the heavens. “Yeah, well, I’ll add it to my list of New Year’s resolutions.”

Which I’ll probably break in the first week.

“Now you’re talking sense.” She tosses the empty tray onto the floor with a clatter and starts on the next full one. It’s the English scones. She picks one up and waves it at me. “And speaking of…when are you seeing your little English scone again? You need to make the most of it while he’s here.”

I shrug and swallow the pang of disappointment.

I haven’t seen Alex in two days. Thirty-six hours. Since he left me on the floor. That sounds bad, but you know…he kind of did. That was Tuesday night—or rather, the early hours of Wednesday morning—and now it’s Thursday morning. I thought he’d come in for cinnamon buns yesterday, but he didn’t. Neither did his brothers.

He didn’t drop the gingerbread house off, either, so perhaps he’ll come in today.

Today is the deadline.

Or…the other option, something I’ve been trying not to think about, he’s not bothering with the competition at all. Because now we’ve had sex—and he’s got what he wanted—he doesn’t need to bother.

He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to do that, but on the other hand, he’s a guy.

I keep reminding myself we didn’t promise each other anything, we didn’t make plans to see each other again. It doesn’t matter that I quite possibly experienced the best night of my life. We had an unspoken deal. It was a one-time thing. Not to mention he’s leaving Saturday.

And I still don’t know his last name.

“We haven’t made plans,” I reply in a weird high pitch as I rip the tape off the top of the box. “Maybe he’ll come by the bakery today. But whatever…I don’t care.”

Saylor pauses what she’s doing—transferring Santa cookies onto the shelf—and lifts an eyebrow at me. Not sure why I thought I’d convince her; I’m not even convincing myself.

“I don’t care,” I mumble.

I don’t. I mean, I do, because no one wants to be used for sex, even though I’ve done the exact same thing to him. But we all want to be wanted, including for, say…the next two days.

I peer over to the windows.

The line is long today, and nearly everyone has their hands full, carefully carrying their precious cargo of gingerbread houses. But Alex isn’t there, nor are any of his brothers. I breathe through another pang of disappointment and shake it off.

“Okay. I’m going to open the doors.” I swipe the keys from the counter. “Ready?”

“Yeah. Ready.” Saylor picks up the stack of empty trays from the floor and takes them through to the kitchen, yelling, “Brock, we need you.”

As predicted, today’s the busiest morning of the week. Too busy.

We’re so rushed off our feet I don’t have time to think about Alex or my sore body. Everyone who’s come in has also taken the opportunity to shop while they’re here. We’ve been through four hundred cinnamon rolls and it’s only eight thirty. Brock’s still manning the till because, as usual, we couldn’t cope.

We have a special drop-off point for the gingerbread houses, where six more bakery chefs take delivery, log the entry, and unbox them, before adding them onto the specially built display that runs along the side wall.

Right now, the houses are the first thing you see when you enter, and it looks so good. So Christmassy, and even though I’m totally exhausted from working a gazillion jobs, and my body hurts in places I didn’t know existed, seeing that shelf reminds me of how much I freaking love Christmas, and Aspen. My favorite houses aren’t the fancy ones, like the Rivern Family, they’re the ones with the little fingerprints swiped through the fondant icing on the roof.

Those are the ones that remind me of when I used to make them with my parents, or when Saylor and I would have decorating sessions together at each other’s houses.

Thankfully, the morning counter rush is over by nine. Most people are out on the mountain, and everyone else likely saw the line in here and decided to come back later. Right now, it’s quiet, and the rest of the morning will be a steady but manageable stream for Saylor and Brock, and I need to go and start my second job for the day before a line forms outside of there too.

“Hey, have you got this now? You mind if I go?” I call to Saylor.

She shakes her head. “Go and sell some trees.”

“I’ll be back at lunchtime to help you clear up. Then we can head to Joe’s for some food.”

She waves me off. “Go.”

I pour myself a big cup of coffee and skedaddle.

It’s exactly fifty steps from the bakery to my store, so I know that I can always run back over if it’s looking busy. I rush across the road, the thick rubber soles on my snow boots barely stopping me from slipping over. I’ve done it too many times to count but never seem to learn my lesson.

I can almost feel my parents waiting for me when I walk in and turn on all the lights. It’s cooler than usual, and somehow that adds to the magic of this place. My mom liked it kept cold, because she said it was better for the wreaths and it was easier for us to wrap up warm. Plus, the door leading out to the tree pen was always open anyway, so it was totally pointless trying to heat it too much.

In here, I find the cold is comforting almost, and every single time I walk in I stop for a minute, absorbing what my mom created—the rolls of paper, the overflowing boxes of multicolored ribbon and baubles, the decorations.

I love this place so much, and suddenly I’m not so tired. Because I remember why I’m busting my ass.

Because this place is slightly jumbled—the concrete floor is always covered in pine needles, and you normally come away covered in glitter no matter how still you stand—it never takes me very long to set up. Once I’ve unlocked the safe and filled up the till, I go and check on all the trees that will go out today from the preorder and delivery. Twisting my hair up into a knot, I pull my apron on and get to work.

Two more cups of coffee and a microwaved bowl of oatmeal later, and half of today’s deliveries have already left, plus I’ve sold half a dozen more. It’s been a busy morning with visitors popping in to buy gifts to take home, baubles for their trees, and Aspen regulars visiting to say hello, just like Mrs. Winslow.

She’s been coming to this store since the day my mom opened it, and every year she buys her tree, two big wreaths for her doors, along with one decoration for each of her grandchildren to have for their trees.

“Oh Haven, these truly are so beautiful this year. Your mom and dad would be so proud of you. You always do them proud.”

My cheeks heat, even in the cool air. “Thank you, Mrs. Winslow. I hope so.”

“Oh, she would, she would ,” she coos, pulling a roll of notes from her purse and handing it to me to take what I need. She does this every time she shops here, and there’s got to be a thousand dollars in fifties, so I peel a couple off and hand her back the rest. “Where are you spending Christmas Day, dear? Not in the house on your own?”

I shake my head with a smile. “No, I’ll be at Saylor’s, like every year.”

“Good, don’t want you rattling about up there by yourself.” She pats my hand. “Don’t forget our place is always open.”

“No, ma’am. Don’t you worry, Saylor and I will be together.” I smile as the shop bell rings, alerting me to a new customer. “Thank you, though.”

I pick up the wreath to carry out, but my eyes land on who’s walked through the door. My heart skips around like a schoolgirl as Alex holds my gaze. He nods over to the side of the store and steps toward the baubles, leaving me to finish helping Mrs. Winslow.

“Let’s get this to the car.”

It takes me a couple of minutes to help her down the store steps and place the wreath in her trunk. Because I also have to say hi to Mr. Winslow, who’s been patiently waiting for her on the curb, Alex has been in the store alone for five minutes. He doesn’t turn when the bell rings; he’s staring at the photo of my parents and me that sits on a shelf behind the counter. It was taken the same day as the one Joe has on the wall in The Old Saloon, when we were out planting saplings.

I close the door behind me. I’m tempted to switch the Open sign to Closed , but I don’t.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Alex spins, pushing his hands into his pockets.

He’s so goddamn handsome with his thick stubble and hair all messy. Today there’s this intensely rugged quality about him, like he’s just returned from a week of rock climbing or something, and now I could totally imagine him throwing hay bales, or wrangling cows. He stands there with a smile that’s making me wonder if he’s also thinking about all the things we did together, but his cheeks aren’t going red like I know mine are.

He points behind him at the picture. “Are these your parents?”

I glance past his shoulder and nod. “Yeah, Wyatt and Jeanne Wylder. And that’s me in the middle.”

His gaze flicks back to the photo. “You’re cute.”

“Thank you.” I smile, biting down on my lip so I’m not smiling too much and make it weird. “So…did you come for more decorations?”

He shakes his head. “No. I came to tell you that I’ve handed my gingerbread house in.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah. I meant to come earlier, but it wasn’t ready. Your friend told me you were over here, so I came to see you.” His smile grows and a warm, fuzzy feeling slips across my skin.

“Oh, well, I’ll go and check it out.”

We stand there staring at each other. It’s exactly the same as the first time, with this weird magnetism between us, the air thickening with tension and unspoken words. Except now I don’t have to imagine what he looks like naked, because I know . I know what he’s capable of doing with his tongue. I know how it feels when he’s inside me.

Mind blowing.

His eyes flick toward the door, and he steps closer to me. “I have to go and meet my brothers, but I’ll come and find you later to collect my prize.”

“Your prize?”

“For winning.”

My head falls back with a laugh. “I’ve never met anyone as cocky as you.”

“Confident,” he corrects me with a wink, leaning in to kiss my cheek, and I’m enveloped once more with the scent of oak and leather.

Turning to smile before he jogs down the steps, I watch from the window until he’s hopped into a Range Rover parked on the street and taken off. The second he disappears around the block, I twist the sign to Closed and sprint across the road. As fast as my snow boots will allow, of course.

It’s almost like Saylor is waiting for me. “Oh man, Havey. Your English crumpet has it baaad.”

“What?”

“No one cares about a gingerbread competition this much . No one. Not even the Riverns. He’s into you big time .” Saylor jerks her head toward the shelves. “You’ll see.”

I stand and stare, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to be looking at when I see it.

Right in the middle.

My heart thuds hard in my chest. I’m tempted to rub my eyes in case I’m seeing things. I definitely blink.

But it’s still there when I open them.

My store. My store in gingerbread.

My store in precise detail.

The Wylder Trees sign swings over the door, even the bell outside the shop is there, and the wreaths on the windows. All made of gingerbread. Around to the side, the trees organized by height in the pen. The little bench Alex sat on. The archway with the mistletoe. Everything is there.

Inside, the shop is laid out just so. The shelves filled with tree ornaments. The counter where I serve my customers. The drawers overflowing with ribbons and baubles.

I don’t even know how he’s done it. How he pulled this together so quickly—where did he get the doll’s house furniture from?

I’ve never seen anything like it.

Then I notice the envelope with my name on it resting against the side, and I rip it open. There are five words on the card I pull out.

Told you I’d win…

Alex x