For someone determined to keep a safe distance from Jake Sullivan, she sure was doing a terrible job of it. Mackenzie woke after another night of fitful, restless sleep and sighed. Two kisses and counting. It was either a spectacular failure . . . or just plain spectacular.

The problem was, she didn’t know which anymore.

She swung her legs out of bed, wincing as her bare feet hit the cold floorboards. She tried to leave the heat off for as long as possible in winter, to keep her heating bills down and give her an excuse to bundle up in snug flannel bedclothes. She hurried quickly to the bathroom and turned on the shower, the pipes shuddering in protest before releasing a rush of hot water, quickly filling the blue-tiled room in steam. “That’s right,” Mackenzie cooed, patting the faucet. “Don’t you go freezing on me yet.”

She stripped off and stepped under the flow. For all its quirks, she loved her old cottage. It was nestled back from the main town, down a winding country road, surrounded by wildflowers and willow trees. It was just one bedroom, with a cozy living area, kitchen, and wrap-around porch, but Mackenzie had filled it with brightly-colored paintings, pottery, and other art pieces until it overflowed with color and life. The dirt-cheap rent helped, thanks to a forgetful landlord who had long since moved out of town, and Mackenzie was slowly putting savings aside, hoping to one day convince him to let her buy it from him outright.

For now though, she was content to bide her time, building up business at the gallery and securing placements for her pottery in high-end design stores up and down the coast. It had taken years, but she was developing a name for herself, with most of her trade coming via Sweetbriar’s tourists, flocking to the many festivals they hosted in town. Which was why the Starbright Festival was so important. It wasn’t just Mackenzie who depended on it for her winter trade; vendors all over town were counting on the visitors to see them through the icy winter months, before the summer beach-goers returned.

So, just the fortune of the entire town resting on her then. No problem at all.

Mackenzie tugged on a sweater and jeans, caught her hair back into a braid, and headed for the door. Then she stopped. She was meeting Jake at the gallery first thing, and this was what she was wearing?

She back-tracked to her closet and flipped through the rails. An array of chunky knit sweaters, brightly-patterned dresses, and quirky jackets stared back at her.

Mackenzie groaned. Didn’t she have anything that said, ‘I’m effortlessly sexy, but never give it a second thought?”

Apparently not.

She looked deeper in the closet, feeling like she was seventeen again, agonizing over her outfit before Jake came to pick her up from school. Maybe this sweater would make him finally notice her, or that lip gloss have him realize what was staring him in the face. But of course, nothing did. To Jake, she’d always just been plain old Mac—buddy, pal, and utterly invisible—as a girl, at least.

Her phone rang, and she scooped it up, trying to find something that didn’t look like an explosion in a yarn factory.

“I dress like a spinster,” she said in greeting to her friend Eliza. She was a journalist up in Boston who was fast becoming a part of the Sweetbriar gang.

“What? I love your style!” Eliza exclaimed. “You always look so comfortable.”

“Comfortable!” Mackenzie echoed in despair. “That’s saying I look like your favorite couch.”

Eliza laughed. “I do love my couch. But where’s all this coming from?”

“Nowhere,” Mackenzie said. “I just didn’t realize how complacent I’ve gotten. I mean, I’m not going to walk around in full makeup and a skin-tight dress, but still, I’m single. If I want to find a boyfriend, I should be making some effort, right?”

“Is this about Jake?” Eliza asked knowingly.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Mackenzie grabbed a plain black turtleneck down. She never wore it, which is why the fabric still had some shape, at least. “I guess having him around is making me realize my love life has been DOA for years.”

“You date!” Eliza protested. “Which is more than I do these days, I’m working all the time.”

“I go on first dates,” Mackenzie corrected her. “And maybe if I didn’t dress like I’m upholstery, I would go on seconds dates, too.”

“Since when have you even wanted a second date with any of those guys?” Eliza countered. “And if a guy only wants you dolled up in three-inch heels, he’s not a guy worth having.”

“You’re right,” Mackenzie agreed. “Of course you’re right. I wear overalls because I get clay all over them, and boots because it’s muddy out, and hats because my ears get cold. I don’t know why I’m overthinking this.”

“Maybe because a certain football player is scrambling your brain. He’s really that hot?” Eliza asked, sounding sympathetic.

“So hot. Dangerously, wildly, unacceptably hot,” Mackenzie said. “So I’m probably better off dressing like Aunt June’s furniture. At least that might keep him from kissing me again.” She put the turtleneck down.

“Again?” Eliza’s voice went up an octave.

“Oh. Yeah. That. He didn’t mean it,” Mackenzie explained quickly. “He was just covering for me.”

Eliza laughed. “Kiss me once, shame on me. Kiss me twice, and . . . I don’t know how that goes, but it definitely wasn’t an accident.”

“You think so?” Mackenzie picked the sweater up again.

“I know so,” Eliza reassured her. “Anyway, I was just calling to ask if you would sit down and talk me through your festival planning. I mentioned to my editor you were hosting, and he suggested it would be a fun behind-the-scenes piece. You know, how you make the magic happen.”

“I don’t know how much magic there’ll be, but sure, any time,” Mackenzie agreed. “Any publicity is good publicity.”

“Great. I’ll put something on the calendar,” Eliza said. “And don’t worry,” she added, “you’re the sexiest couch I’ve ever seen.”

That decided it.

Mackenzie hung up and pulled on the black sweater. Sure, it was a hell of a lot tighter than anything she usually wore, but what was a little suffocation between friends?

---

Mackenzie walked the few short blocks to the gallery and found Jake waiting outside, looking handsome as ever in a thick navy peacoat with a coffee cup in each hand. “Still take it with ten sugars?” he joked as she unlocked the front door.

“Eleven, but I’ll make do. Thanks.” Mackenzie took the coffee and led him inside, feeling self-conscious as she watched him look around. “It’s just a small space, I know,” she found herself apologizing. “Most of this stuff is for the tourists. They love the kitschy designs. Anything with a ship on it they snap right up.”

“I think it’s great.” Jake sounded sincere. “I mean it, I’m really impressed.”

“Oh.” Mackenzie blinked. “Thanks. My studio’s back here,” she said, showing him the way. “We can get started with the schedule.”

Jake quirked an eyebrow at her. “All business, huh? You have changed.”

Mackenzie flushed. “I figured you must be busy . . .”

Jake gave a hollow-sounding laugh. “Me? Sure. My phone’s just ringing off the hook these days. Injured players are in high demand.”

There was a beat, and she saw that shadow flit across his face again, that echo of something dark and almost hopeless.

“I’m sorry,” Mackenzie said gently. “I keep forgetting. I mean, you seem to be getting around fine. I would never guess you were injured from looking at you.”

“No, I’m sorry.” Jake let out a sigh. “And you’re right, my recovery has been great so far. I shouldn’t complain, not when it was a question if I’d even be walking again. But . . . walking isn’t playing.”

“Do you know when you’ll be back on the field?” she asked.

“Soon, I hope. I have an appointment with my physio later today, but she always just tells me to be patient.”

He was clearly frustrated, and Mackenzie knew how hard this must be for him. “Well, if anyone’s pig-headed and stubborn enough to make it happen, it’s you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jake said, but he smiled again. “Now, are you going to show me where the magic happens?”

Mackenzie paused, her mind racing somewhere not entirely PG-rated.

“Your studio,” Jake added.

“Oh, right.” Mackenzie showed him in back, to the chaotic, cluttered space. Jake chuckled.

“That’s more like it,” he said, looking around. “I was wondering where you kept the mess.”

“You mean, the raw, creative genius,” she corrected him. She shoved a stack of books off a chair and kicked it towards him.

“That too.” Jake took a seat and looked with interest towards the corner. “What’s over there?” he asked, nodding to the sheet she had draped over one of her works-in-progress.

“Nothing,” Mackenzie said quickly. “Just something I’m playing around with.”

The truth was, it was one of her personal projects, the sculptures she never let anyone see. These weren’t the tourist-friendly pottery she churned out for the gallery, but intricate, personal, abstract works that Mackenzie toiled away on after hours—and then promptly locked in her storage room and never let see the light of day. She certainly wasn’t going to show them to Jake, so she quickly heaved Debra’s festival binder onto the desk with a thud.

Jake looked at it with trepidation.

“It’s not too late, you know,” Mackenzie said lightly. “Go, now, save yourself.”

“And leave you to shoulder it on your own?” Jake shook his head. “I told you: we’re in this together.”

God, she was going to have to build up her resistance to that smile. Mackenzie averted her eyes before she started drooling, and started stripping off her coat, gloves, and scarf. “Well, we’ve got a full inventory of the decorations, that’s the first thing,” she said, going to hang her winter gear up. As usual, there was no space to put it, so she shoved her coat aside on a stack of books. “Now we just need to make a list of what each business in town is doing, plus there’s the toy drive, and the main tree—” She turned back and found Jake staring at her. “What?” Mackenzie asked, self-conscious. “Do I have paint all over my ass again?”

Jake coughed. “No. You’re . . . fine. OK, I mean,” he corrected himself. “No paint.”

“Good.” Mackenzie sat down, relieved. “Also, maybe it’s crazy to be planning extra stuff before we even get started, but I was thinking it could be fun to do a Winter Art-Walk. You know, have different local artists display their works around town and put together a map for tourists.”

“Sounds great.” Jake took a sip of his coffee.

“You’re sure? Not too much?”

Jake laughed. “Last year, I spent the holidays with takeout and ESPN, so pretty much anything we’re planning here counts as ‘too much.’ But it’ll be good,” he added, reassuring. “There’s no such thing as too much holiday spirit in Sweetbriar.”

“That much is true.” Mackenzie relaxed. “OK, let’s get started on this schedule!”

---

By the time they were done divvying up the Sweetbriar schedule, Jake knew more about the politics of holiday ornaments than he ever thought possible. With anyone else, it would have been a chore, but Mackenzie made everything fun—dropping scandalous gossip in with every new item, so he was fully up to date on everything he’d missed in town. It was strangely comforting to hear all the news again: no high-stakes drama or million-dollar contracts on the line, just the ongoing feud between the Cartwright sisters over the family orchard, and the time Grayson at the bookstore caused a local scandal by selling some middle-schoolers a box of steamy erotic romance novels.

“Well, on the plus side, everyone in town is going to hate me for making them do all this work,” Mackenzie said brightly, sitting back. “Which means fewer invitations, and more time alone with my work.”

Jake chuckled. “Liar. You could charm them into anything. I bet you’ll have people lining up to volunteer.”

“Sure.” Mackenzie sounded dubious.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Jake said. Mackenzie caught his eye, and he suddenly had a hard time remembering why he’d stayed away from Sweetbriar for so long.

Get a grip.

Jake forced himself to take another swig of coffee, long since cold. At least he was looking above her neck this time. When she’d taken off her coat to reveal that skin-tight sweater . . . Jake felt like he’d just run laps at the stadium. Pulse racing, shortness of breath—an NFL workout had nothing on five minutes alone with Mackenzie Lane.

A rumbling noise broke through his thoughts. He looked up to find Mac blushing furiously. “I guess that’s our cue to break for lunch,” she said, rubbing her stomach.

He laughed. “Loud and clear.”

Mackenzie got up. “Want to run by the bakery and grab something? Summer is trying out savory stuff for fall. She does these cheese and herb pies that are just . . .”

She pressed her hand to her chest in a swoon.

Jake felt torn. “Wish I could, but I have my physio appointment up in Boston, and I should hit the road.”

“Right. Of course,” Mackenzie agreed quickly. She looked away. “We can pick this up another time.”

“Can’t wait,” Jake replied, and Mackenzie snorted with laughter.

“Sure,” she said, grinning, and Jake didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d meant every word.