Mistletoe Rodeo

Chapter 1

Jasmine

The spotlights cast harsh shadows across the marble floor as I scan the ballroom, marking off items on my clipboard. My back aches, but I straighten my posture, refusing to show any weakness.

"Those arrangements need to be exactly six inches from the edge of each table," I call out to the florist's assistants. "The photographers will notice if they're not uniform."

"Yes, Ms. Caldwell." They scramble to adjust the white orchids and roses.

My assistant Marcus hurries over, his tablet in hand. "The lighting crew wants to know if you'd prefer warm or cool tones for the runway segment."

"Cool. We want the models' makeup to pop under the lights." I gesture toward the ceiling. "And dim these overheads by twenty percent. The ambient lighting needs to complement the spotlights, not compete with them."

The baby stretches, and I press a hand to my side, disguising the movement by pretending to check my phone. No one at this event knows about my pregnancy yet – my carefully tailored black pantsuit still conceals my small bump.

"The caterers are asking about the timing for the appetizer service," Marcus says.

"Tell them to hold until after the first runway segment. We can't risk any spills on the floor before the models walk." I make another note on my clipboard. "And make sure the champagne servers know to offer me sparkling water without making it obvious. I don't need any questions today."

A crash echoes from the kitchen entrance, and I spin around, my heels clicking against the floor. "Marcus-"

"On it," he says, already moving toward the sound.

I tap my earpiece. "Status report on the sound check?"

"Almost done, just balancing the levels," comes the reply.

"Good. I want a final test in twenty minutes." I stride toward the stage, watching the technicians adjust the lighting grid above. Everything has to be perfect. This show could make or break several designers' careers – and my reputation along with them.

"No, the centerpieces need to be taller. We want elegance, not clutter," I say, watching the florist's assistant shift nervously. "Add in the crystal risers – they're in the supply room."

"But Ms. Caldwell, the budget-" she starts.

I cut her off with a raised hand. "The budget accounts for them. This is the fashion event of the season – everything needs to be perfect."

The assistant scurries off while I examine the nearest table arrangement. The winter-themed arrangements are exquisite – fire and ice roses surrounded by lush sprigs of holly and ivy – but they're drowning in the massive round tables. My fingertips brush against an elegant red ribbon running through the foliage Absolutely perfect.

Marcus appears at my elbow. "One of the designers is here early. She's asking about the dance floor placement."

"Of course she is." I straighten my jacket. "Tell her I'll be right there. And make sure they use all the risers – I don't want to see any variations in height."

"Got it. Oh, and the lighting crew finished the preset programs."

"Good. Run through them again after the centerpieces are adjusted. I need to see how the crystals will catch the light."

The baby kicks again, stronger this time. I press my palm against the side of my belly, hidden behind my clipboard. Five more hours until the reception. I can handle this. I swallow a wave of nausea, tucking a stray strand of hair back into my severe bun, determined not to let my discomfort show.

"And Marcus? Have someone bring me a protein bar. The fancy kind from my emergency kit, not the vending machine ones."

"Already in my pocket." He pulls out the bar with a knowing smile. "Can't have you passing out before the first dance."

"You're getting a raise." I snatch the bar and tuck it into my jacket. "Now, where's Mrs. Winters? Let's tackle this dance floor situation."

Mrs. Winters hovers near the dance floor, her designer heels tapping an impatient rhythm. I intercept her before she can terrorize my staff further.

"The placement is perfect," I say, gesturing to the marked area. "We've calculated the exact square footage needed for your three hundred guests."

"But what about the ice sculpture? Won't it take up too much space?"

"The dimensions have been factored in." I pull up the 3D rendering on my tablet. "See? The fountain will be here, creating a natural flow between the appetizer and dancing areas."

The baby shifts again, and I subtly adjust my stance. Even my own child needs to learn that mommy runs a tight ship.

"I suppose..." Mrs. Winters peers at the screen. "But what if-"

"Trust me." I keep my voice firm but warm. "Every detail has been planned, timed, and triple-checked. This holiday fashion show will be flawless."

Marcus appears with another clipboard. "The DJ needs your sign-off on the schedule."

"One moment." I turn back to Mrs. Winters. "Would you like to see the lighting demo? We've programmed special effects for each phase of the event."

"Well, yes, actually-"

"Perfect. Marcus will show you while I handle this." I pass her off smoothly, maintaining my practiced smile until she's out of earshot.

My phone buzzes – three new emails, two texts from vendors, and a calendar reminder for tomorrow's doctor's appointment. I silence them all. Right now, this event demands my complete attention. Everything else can wait.

The DJ's timeline needs minor adjustments – he's left too much space between the fashion show and the start of the reception. Amateur mistake. I make the corrections, each mark of my pen precise and deliberate.

Control isn't just about managing others – it's about managing myself. Every step, every word, every decision must be calculated. One slip, and everything could unravel.

I learned that lesson years ago, and this baby won't change that.

I stride toward the catering setup, my clipboard at the ready. "The hors d'oeuvres need to be-"

The words die in my throat as a wave of garlic hits me. My stomach lurches, and I clamp my lips shut. One of the servers walks past with a food container, trailing that nauseating aroma.

"Ms. Caldwell, about the timing for the-" Marcus starts.

I thrust my clipboard at him, pressing my hand over my mouth. The marble floor seems to tilt beneath my feet as I spin around, searching for the nearest restroom.

"Are you-"

I wave him off, my heels clicking rapidly against the floor as I power-walk toward the bathroom. The scent follows me, clinging to my nostrils, each breath making my stomach roll harder.

"Hold all questions," I manage to call over my shoulder, maintaining what dignity I can as I push through the restroom door.

The garlic smell intensifies in the enclosed space - someone must have eaten in here earlier. My stomach heaves. The stall door bangs against the wall as I rush inside.

"Jasmine?" Marcus's voice carries through the door. "Should I call someone?"

"No!" I grip the toilet bowl, my carefully arranged hair falling forward. "Just... handle the caterers. Five minutes."

The baby’s doing somersaults again, as if protesting the sudden movement. Great. Even my unborn child is giving me attitude.

"There's ginger ale in your emergency kit," he says. "I'll have it ready."

The sound of his footsteps retreats as another wave of nausea crashes over me. So much for my perfectly scheduled day.

Cold water splashes against my face, and I grip the marble countertop, steadying myself. The bathroom's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows under my eyes as I examine my reflection. My dark skin has taken on an ashen undertone, and loose strands have escaped my usually perfect bun.

A knock at the door makes me straighten. "Ms. Caldwell?" It's Marcus again. "I've got your ginger ale."

"Leave it by the door." My voice echoes against the tile. "I'll be out in two minutes."

I smooth my hands over my black pantsuit, pausing at my abdomen. The bump is barely noticeable – most would mistake it for a big lunch. Dr. Peterson keeps saying I should be showing more by now, that I need to gain weight, but I've got three more major events this month. The less questions, the better.

The baby shifts, a gentle flutter rather than the earlier kicks. "Not now, little one," I whisper, pressing my palm against the spot. "Mommy's got an event to run."

My phone buzzes – another reminder for tomorrow's appointment. I silence it without looking. One crisis at a time.

The sink's automatic sensor triggers again as I lean forward to fix my makeup. My concealer's still perfect – thank god for waterproof formulas – but my lipstick needs touching up.

"That high-maintenance designer is asking for you," Marcus calls through the door.

"Tell her I'm reviewing the lighting cues." I reapply my lipstick with practiced precision. "And get rid of whoever was eating garlic in here. I don't care if they're union – they're gone."

"Already handled. But the designer-"

"Two minutes, Marcus." I tuck the loose strands back into place, securing them with another pin. "The world won't end if Mrs. Winters has to wait."

Hours later, my silk sheets whisper against my skin as I collapse into bed, every muscle aching from the day's marathon event. The show was perfect - of course it was - but my body demands rest. The baby seems to agree, settling into a peaceful stillness as I drift off.

The dream starts slowly. Warmth spreads across my skin as familiar hands trace the curve of my hip, sliding up my waist. Brian's touch ignites memories I've tried so hard to suppress. His fingers trail along my collarbone, and I arch into his caress.

"I've missed you," he murmurs against my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

Our lips meet, and the kiss deepens with an intensity that steals my breath. His tongue slides against mine, tasting of whiskey and desire. My fingers tangle in his dark hair as he presses me into the mattress.

"Tell me you want this," he growls, nipping at my earlobe.

"Yes," I gasp, wrapping my legs around his waist.

Our bodies move together in a desperate rhythm, his muscled form pinning me beneath him. Every touch sets my nerves on fire. His hands grip my thighs, pulling me closer as we chase our pleasure. The world narrows to just us - just this moment of pure, unrestrained passion.

"Jasmine," he groans, and the sound of my name on his lips sends electricity down my spine.

I jolt awake, my silk sheets tangled around my legs. The phantom sensation of Brian's touch lingers on my skin, making me shiver despite the warm night air. My heart pounds against my ribs as if trying to escape.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, pressing my palms against my eyes. The ceiling fan whirs above, its steady rhythm doing nothing to calm my racing pulse.

The baby stirs, probably disturbed by my sudden awakening. I press a hand to my stomach, trying to steady my breathing. "Sorry, little one. Mommy's just having a moment."

My phone glows on the nightstand - 3:47 AM. Great. Another sleepless night courtesy of hormones and... whatever that dream was. The memory of Brian's hands on my body, his lips against my neck, sends another wave of heat through me.

"No." I throw off the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. "We are not doing this."

But my body betrays me, still humming with desire. I pace the length of my bedroom, the plush carpet muffling my steps. This is just pregnancy hormones. It has to be. There's no other logical explanation for dreaming about the one man who could completely derail my carefully planned life.

The one man who doesn't know he's about to become a father.

"Stop it," I command myself, bracing my hands against my dresser. My reflection stares back at me, hair wild from sleep, eyes too bright. "You do not need him. You've never needed anyone."

The baby jabs me in the ribs, as if disagreeing.

"Don't you start," I whisper, rubbing small circles over my bump. "We're doing just fine on our own."

But the memory of his touch refuses to fade, and sleep remains frustratingly out of reach. Why the hell did that just happen…again?