Of all my clients at Golden Lights Media, Holly Carter might be my favorite.

The blonde sports photographer is Texan to her very core, despite being born in Louisiana, and having an appointment with her is as close as I get to breaking open the champagne and having a girls’ day at work.

“How are you liking the new office?” I ask her as I pour us two rounds of lemonade—sans alcohol. “Did the renovations work out the way you wanted them to?”

Holly’s red-painted lips widen in a strained smile. “Girl, you have no idea. Working out of my house has been . . . rough.”

I don’t want to prod but I get the feeling she wants to unload. Setting my desktop computer to sleep mode, I take a sip of my lemonade and then place the glass back on my desk. “Things aren’t getting any better with Jackson?”

Holly’s husband is Jackson Carter, the captain for the Boston Blades. I’ve met him on a few occasions—Golden Lights represents him but he’s assigned to one of the other publicists—and he’s always been nice from what I’ve seen.

My client shrugs and then sinks a little lower in her seat. “God, I don’t know, Gwen. It’s not like he did anything wrong and I know I haven’t either. It’s just . . . sometimes people grow apart. That’s us.”

Her accent thickens as she speaks and it’s clear she’s getting upset. If I had booze in this office, I’d pour her more than just the lemonade. All I can do is push my glass across the desk and offer it to her with a nod. “Pretend there’s vodka in it.”

This time, her grin is all the way genuine. “You’re the best, you know that?”

I don’t think that’s true but I certainly try to be the best at anything I take on. “I know you don’t have much family here,” I say, wondering if I’m overstepping boundaries, “but if you wanted to just get away for a little, you’re more than welcome to hang out with me for Christmas. It’ll just be me, myself, and I.”

Adaline hasn’t contacted me since the lasagna night incident, and I spoke to Manuel briefly to clue him in that while I would never fire him, it might be in his best interest to apologize before showing back up to work. Turns out, the wine-tipping incident was Manny’s last hurrah. The minute he walked out of my mother’s house that night, he’d decided he was never returning. While I applauded him, I wished I could find that similar backbone.

I won’t be heading over to my mother’s house for the holidays—I never do—but I’m sure I’ll find myself keying open the front door at some point or another to try, once again, with my mother.

Or maybe you’ll spend the day with Marshall?

The thought sends butterflies fluttering into motion in my belly. I don’t want to get my hopes up but maybe, just maybe, he’ll want to get together and spend Christmas Day watching more movies and snuggling.

“I appreciate the offer, Gwen, I do, but—”

My phone ringing cuts Holly off. Shit. I wipe my hands across my skirt and yank my phone out of my drawer. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, “let me just make sure this isn’t a client. We had an . . . issue this morning involving a panda bear and the zoo’s curator.”

Holly waves me off with a smile. “Do what you have to do. I’ll drink my fake-vodka cocktail.”

I could hug her.

Whirling away, I give the unknown number flashing across the screen a cursory glance before answering the call and stepping into the hallway. I gently shut the door. “Hello? This is Gwen.”

“Hey, you.”

That voice.

We’ve spoken via text since our “fantasy night,” a few days ago, but we haven’t had time to catch up with our mismatched schedules. I press my back to my door and feel the smile inching across my face. “What’s with the unknown number?”

Marshall’s husky laugh is like music to my ears. “Would you believe me if I said Harrison’s fat ass broke it?”

The idea of The Mountain sitting on Marshall’s phone and snapping it in half is hilarious, and I find myself giggling along. “Is that really what happened?”

He pauses, for effect, I think, and then goes on. “Nah. Unfortunately, I was at the gym this morning and accidentally dropped my dumbbell right on the damn thing. It sounds a lot better when I blame Duke for it though.”

“Don’t tell me you were thinking of me naked and then dropped the weight,” I tease. It’s not so out of the realm of possibility. I may have sent him a photo of me last night before I climbed into bed.

Maybe.

In my defense, the photo didn’t even constitute as a nipple shot seeing as it was collarbone and up. But my hair had been wet and my face makeup free, and clothes or not, I’d let him come to his own conclusion. Like any guy, he’d chosen to believe I was snapping photos of myself in my birthday suit.

“You caught me,” he tells me now. “In the future, give a guy a little warning before you do something like that.”

“I should give any guy a warning before naked-time or only you?”

I don’t know what makes me say that, and Marshall doesn’t let the comment sit for longer than a moment.

“Me.” I can almost imagine his narrowed pewter eyes, his broad shoulders . . . “There’s no one else in this equation but the two of us.”

“I know.”

“Good. Listen, I’m just leaving an appointment with my publicist and I want to see you.”

Sneaking a quick glance back at the door behind me, I state the obvious, “I’m at work.”

“I’ll come and wait for you.” There’s the sound of an engine kicking on, and then the radio blares loudly before being silenced. “Give Walter the chance to see what he missed out on all those years ago.”

I laugh even as I silently admit how true it is. My boss skipped over Marshall when he was on the farm team, choosing to believe that the Blades’ top draft pick would ultimately be traded elsewhere before being pulled onto the first line. Marshall shocked everyone by proving them wrong—and my boss is fully aware that he missed out on a client who could have earned him a good chunk of change.

“Why don’t you give me an hour and I’ll meet you.”

“My house? I’ll cook us some dinner.” Marshall pauses. Then, “Don’t wear panties.”

There must be something in the rule book about not blushing and thinking about your guy naked while at work. I do a quick look around to make sure the hall is blessedly empty. “It’s December and cold out.”

“All the reason to let me warm you up when you get here, honey.”

Damn man, I think, when I hear the dial tone on the other end of the phone. He totally backed me into a corner on that one, and he knows I don’t like to back down from a challenge. Feeling altogether way too flustered to return to a meeting, I smooth my skirt and reenter my office.

Holly’s on her phone, legs crossed, with our lemonades empty at her elbow. She glances up at me with a half-smile. “Who was that? The panda bear guy?”

I shiver at the reminder of my morning. No one, and I repeat no one, should ever wonder what happens when a panda tries to hump one of the head staff at a zoo . . . while having it all caught on camera and then uploaded to every social media site in existence.

There are a lot of things I’ve covered up over the years and squashed into nothingness—but the humping panda is going to prove tricky, even for me.

Taking my seat, I plop my phone back into the drawer after setting it on silent. “It was nobody.”

Holly gives me a droll glance. “I heard you mention the word naked, twice.”

I freeze. Did I say it twice? No more than once, right? Squirming at having been caught, I tap-tap-tap on my keyboard, bringing the computer back to life. “I, uh, may have been trying to tell a client they shouldn’t strip naked and run around the mall like that.”

“Mhmm.” Holly taps her glass with her nails. “You know, Gwen, although my husband and I are on the outs, I do still hear the gossip.”

“Oh?” This doesn’t sound good.

“Yes, ma’am.” Holly waits until I’ve turned to look at her before wrapping up my present of humiliation and sticking the bow on top. “It turns out that just about everyone knows you and Marshall Hunt are a thing.”

Are we a thing?

I’ve never really been in a thing with anyone before. My past relationships have all been short-term stints, emotionless, and boring.

This thing—so, yes, I guess it is a thing—with Marshall fits under none of those categories. “I, um”—I fidget some more—“we may be doing . . . something.”

In his movie theater, in his shower, in his bed.

We’ve done a lot of somethings and I definitely want to do more.

Holly smiles, and it’s so sweet and sincere that I can’t help but return it. “I hope it works out for y’all.” She offers a little shrug, then twirls the glass round and round. “Jackson and I . . . well, anyway, I like you and I like Hunt. Keep that one on lockdown, girl.”

I think of Marshall walking away from me at Zoe’s engagement party. I never want to feel that level of despair again. This thing with Marshall is special, and I’m ready to hold on with two hands and never let go.

“That’s the goal,” I finally tell my client. “Trust me, that’s the goal.”