Booked for Christmas

illustrator—”
“Yeah, I know who Will is. I invited him.” She frowned and shook her head. “But—I mean, why would you want to come to my party?”
“I didn’t know it was your party. The invitation said Sophia Bartholomew-Kaur-Hughes.”
“Yeah. That’s my legal name, Wolfe.”
“Why don’t you use that on your books?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Try fitting Bartholomew-Kaur-Hughes on a book spine.”
He appeared to process this information. “Right. Well, I didn’t know.” Looking behind him, he considered the car he’d driven up in—a beaten-up, rugged Jeep. “You know what? I’ll just drive back home, I think.” Turning back, he thrust the present at her. “I guess … this is for you, then.”
Sophie studied the box with all the trust of an airport dog sniffing an abandoned suitcase. Not taking it from him, she asked, “What is it?”
“Your latest novel, shredded into tiny pieces.” When she gasped, he held up a hand and rolled his eyes. “I’m kidding. It’s a hostess present. I brought a box of Belgian chocolates from Sweet Cute because I didn’t know what you might like.”
She hesitated. Chocolates from Sweet Cute, a boutique chocolatier in Portland, were her weakness. A swell of laughter rose behind her and Sophie half turned. Her friends were in there, together, happy, enjoying themselves. And Wolfe was out here, alone, in the cold. “Wait. Where’s Will, if you’re his plus-one?”
“Sick—food poisoning. He asked me to bring you his apologies.” Wolfe shrugged. “Obviously he didn’t know what a mistake that would be. Here.” He held the box out again. His hands and nose were red from the bitter cold, his hair glittering from where snowflakes had melted into it.
“Why don’t you come in for a minute?” Sophie heard herself say, in spite of her instincts screaming at her to take the chocolates and run. But it was kind of mean to make him drive all the way back to spend the night alone, wasn’t it? This close to Christmas? “Get warmed up, get some food, and then you can drive back.”
He studied her, his hazel eyes reflecting the lights around the cabin front. “Look, I don’t want to ruin your party.”
As if on cue, two cars pulled up into the drive. Sophie gestured with her chin as she took the box. “There’ll be enough people here that we won’t have to speak to each other too much, Wolfe. Come on. It’s free food and free booze.”
After the slightest hesitation, he nodded. “Thanks. That’s … sweet of you.”
Sophie shot him a brilliant smile as she stepped aside to let him in. “I’m very sweet. Some might even call me … what was the exact line? … Oh, yes. ‘Tooth-achingly saccharine.’”
He had the good grace to flush the tiniest bit.
Once she’d greeted the rest of her newly arrived guests, who were now walking up the drive—Ivy, a literary agent, and her wife Quinn, a chef; and Damien, who ran Portland’s biggest book club—Sophie ushered them all inside the cabin, closed the front door, and took a deep breath.
The cabin smelled faintly of pine, thanks to her little Christmas tree, but mostly of delicious food. Sophie’s stomach growled as she walked to the bedroom with her armful of presents. Ivy, Quinn, and Damien had all drifted to the kitchen to join her other friends. She could hear them in there now, laughing at Marco’s story about a bulldog with reindeer antlers on its head. All of them, that is, except for Wolfe.
She came back out into the living room to find him frowning at her tree like he’d found a dripping deer carcass hanging on her wall. Sophie propped her fists on her hips and cleared her throat. He turned to her with his eyebrows raised, as if he were surprised to find her there.
He’d taken off his peacoat and scarf and was dressed in a fitted forest-green sweater that hugged the planes of his torso, showcasing a broad chest and back that suggested he lumbered around chopping trees down in his spare time. Huh. Who’d have thought the Lone Wolfe could be so … well, the word she’d use if she was feeling generous was “hot.” But Sophie wasn’t feeling generous. So hot-ish it was. Evan Wolfe was hot-ish.
To dispel that disturbing thought, she spoke. “Why are you staring at my tree like that? You’ll scare him.”
His eyebrows went even higher. “Him?”
“Yes. His name’s Bert and he’s a nervous type.” Walking over to Bert, Sophie adjusted his scraggly branches and moved around an ornament or two to highlight his best features. “Don’t judge.”
“I wasn’t judging,” Wolfe said judgily from behind her. “You named your tree Bert and it’s wearing a scarf. You think it’s nervous. You’re puttering around it like an overprotective mother. This is all totally normal.”
Sophie turned and looked up at him, unable to keep the irritation off her face. “You need a little bit of imagination.”
Wolfe looked unimpressed. “And I think you need way less.”
They stood close together in silence for a long moment, Sophie calculating how much tinsel it might take to strangle a full-grown man. Wolfe, of course, continued to gaze infuriatingly impassively at her as if nothing could unsettle him.
But then, the next moment, something shifted. He blinked and his eyes roved her face—over her eyes, her cheeks, her lips—his eyebrows lifting just slightly, as if something had surprised him. “You look … different than your author photo.”
The way he was looking at her—something fluttered low in Sophie’s stomach. Ridiculous, considering he was making fun of her. “Thanks a lot. I was five years younger then,” she snapped.
Wolfe opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Peyton, who had poked her head into the living room. “Hey, Soph? We were wondering where the—Oh.” She stopped short and took in Wolfe and Sophie, the way they were standing close together. Immediately, a gleaming smile sprouted on her face. “Hi,” she said, walking forward, her hand outstretched. Sophie widened her eyes and stepped away from Wolfe, trying to send Peyton a telepathic message that this wasn’t a