I'll Be Your Santa Tonight - Rebecca Sharp Page 0,15

grazed over the blueprints—or whatever they were—in awe of how the drawings were going to turn into what she described.

“There’s going to be a candy cane fence, lollipop flowers in the planters, gumdrops lining the windows...” she went on, describing and pointing out the array of candy that would adorn the structure. “Oh, and I’ve asked them to order fifteen cases of Peeps trees along with the other candy.”

“Do I even want to know how much that is?”

The number Holly threw out was in the thousands, but as jaw-dropping as the thought was, as incredible as her plans sounded, I found it harder and harder to focus on them. Instead, all my attention shifted to her, seeing her whole body light up with the twinkle of inspiration in her eyes was like witnessing magic come to life, and it was only seconds before I was lost in her.

“You’re really going to make this something special,” I mused when I realized she was looking at me, waiting for my response.

I’d been here since the beginning—since I’d suggested the very first gingerbread house to turn the hotel into an attraction in and of itself. And I’d hand-picked different pastry chefs each year to bring their own style and flair to the task, each of them creating something more impressive than the last. Most of them loving Christmas. But not one of them had shown the same kind of spark she did just now—like she wasn’t just building this for the world to see.

This was personal for her.

“I want it to be memorable,” she turned and told me, shuddering at the words once they were spoken.

“I think you want it to be more than memorable, Holly,” I rasped. “I think you want it to be magical.”

No matter what she said. No matter how she protested or tried to hide it, I couldn’t believe with the way she spoke that she truly hated this holiday.

Instead, she reminded me of children I refused to forget—the ones who hope and hope each and every year that they’ll come downstairs to find presents under their tree. Not because they really wanted the gifts, but because they ached to believe in something more—something magical. And Holly... I had the sense she believed she’d stopped wishing for magic.

But there was a part of her—a part of her that accepted this job—that still hoped.

And at that moment, I knew I was going to do everything in my power to give her hope a reason to hang on.

I caught her hesitation before she replied almost robotically, “I don’t believe in magic.”

“I think I could convince you.” I meant about the house—the holiday. I meant the magic of the season. But with the catch of her breath and heavy thump of my pulse, we were both thinking of a different magic—the kind that carries for longer than a season.

Her eyes dropped as she folded up her plans, changing the subject to remark, ”A Grinch tie? Was that for me?” She arched an eyebrow.

I grinned. “I thought you’d like it.”

“So, does it count as holiday spirit if I dress up in green and am grouchy to everyone?” she asked, tucking the papers back into her pocket before planting her hands on her hips. “Because I can definitely do that.”

As much as I wanted to stay in the realm where Holly was reaching for dreams that took a lot of effort and faith, I wouldn’t push it. Not yet. There was still time until the holiday—time for me to make it everything she thought she wasn’t missing.

“You’re more than welcome to turn yourself into the Grinch,” I conceded, enjoying the look of confusion on her face. “Though, I’d be careful being grouchy to Roberto.” I nodded over to the older Italian man who was liable to give as good as he got.

Her arms folded, and I was surprised when she took a step toward me. But that was nothing compared to how my body reacted when she reached out and grabbed my tie, inspecting the green-faced icon on the front. My stomach tensed into a knotted wall of muscle as my breath lodged like thick molasses in my lungs.

Her eyes slid up to mine, perplexed. ”I hate to break it to you, Saint, but you know the Grinch hates Christmas, right?”

My pulse sang, hearing her call me by my name—hearing it whispered so close.

I let my eyes trail down from the swirls of desire in her eyes to her plump, parted lips, torturing myself

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