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Eli Cooper’s not for you. He’s a grump. A grinch.
The reminder is completely ignored by my hopelessly romantic heart.
CHAPTER FOUR
ELI
Shelby doesn’t like me.
Or at least, she doesn’t fawn over me like most women. Which is a good thing, but also frustrating considering how attracted I am to her. It’s not even about her outward appearance either, although those round hips of hers are perfect for holding onto while I pump my cock between those deliciously thick thighs.
Get it together, Cooper.
Her curves are a plus. So is her creative competency—something I never thought I’d find a turn-on, hell, never knew it was a thing—yet here we are.
Shelby knows her shit. A consummate professional. Despite the way I bulldozed into her life and claimed her evening for my own, she’s laid out a plethora of supplies and walked me through the process of tying green branches to a wiry frame.
“You know you steamrolled me into agreeing to this, right?” she asks, settling in a chair across from me after we’ve finished eating the pizza I ordered for dinner. And I swear a whiff of gingerbread releases from the shake of her head, her hair swinging side to side in its ponytail.
Gingerbread? Really? Have I been so enmeshed in Christmas that now I’m imagining this beautiful woman smells like a damn cookie?
“Think of the publicity. Or my poor mom’s reaction upon receiving a bought gift rather than a homemade one.” I wink and place a hand over my heart in exaggerated concern. I’d feel guilty for using my mom this way, but, no doubt, she’d be onboard with the tactic.
Shelby rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile hiding in the corner of her mouth—she’s not completely immune to me.
“So, your mom… I take it she’s a holiday movie fan?”
“How’d you guess?” I tease, cramming a poinsettia flower onto my wreath. “She’s a super fan and has been since the inception of Countdown to Christmas. I can’t tell you how many movies I was forced to watch, especially when they started airing earlier and earlier in the year. Fucking October for Christmas movies. It’s unnatural.”
The memories come flooding back. Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the television while my mom sat on the couch behind me laughing or crying, depending on the film. Hearing her hope before a first date only for it to be crushed by the time she returned home and turned on a recorded holiday romance—something I’d have to endure while trying to comfort her. No matter the time of year. We could be in the heat of summer, and she’d still play The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.
I love my mom, but she puts too much faith in Christmas miracles and finding love during the holidays. None of it is real. Every sappy line and kiss is contrived. Scripted. Fake.
“Yet you star in several of those movies each year.” Shelby’s nose scrunches in confusion as she twines a gold ribbon around her wreath frame—already it’s obvious hers is leagues better than mine.
I shrug in resigned acceptance. “The first film was for my mom, but then they kept sending me scripts. Since nothing else was on the horizon…” Man, I hate being a fucking cliché. Former teen star demoted to the small screen.
“It makes sense now. Why I never got into your movies.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry,” she tilts her head to the side and offers an apologetic grin, “But I always got this feeling that you didn’t enjoy what you were doing. That you actually looked down on the roles as something beneath you.”
“I don’t understand the cult-like following.” Even to my own ears, my tone sounds defensive. “It’s acting, like every other show or movie out there, yet people latch onto these holiday films as if they’re true to life. Like at any moment someone from their past will pop up to sweep them off their feet.”
Like my mom believes.
“That’s not fair. It’s a comforting fantasy, and some of the storylines could happen in real life.” Shelby frowns at my less than generous description.
Damn, even frowning is sexy on her, and I shift in my seat, ignoring the semi I’m sporting. “Name one thing you’ve ever experienced or know that someone experienced in real life,” I challenge. “The basic holiday activities don’t count like decorating a tree or wrapping presents. Have you had to stop a developer from tearing down your business with the help of the developer’s son? Bumped into an old flame who’s writing an article about you for their magazine?”
Shelby’s eyes narrow. “No, obviously, but those examples don't prove they can’t happen. It just hasn’t happened to me yet. I’m more the crafter who gets paired with a local handyman to help bring my vision for the holiday festival to life.”
That was oddly specific, and a stab of jealousy pinches my heart at why she might have listed that possibility. “Do you already have a man?” I ask, intent on her answer.
The direct question surprises her. Her gaze drops to the wreath in her hand, her fingers unsteady as they try to tie a bow. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t. I’m focused on my shop.”
Relief pours through my veins like a shot of ice cold champagne. “Spoken like a true Hallmark heroine set to fall in love with a small town farmer who’ll teach you how to slow down and smell the roses. Yet you’re here with me instead.”
