Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
“It has character.”
“It has lead paint.”
She gasps. “That’s slander.”
“It’s a fact.”
“Then you’re slandering facts.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That’s not how any of that works.”
She grins at me, wide and bright and too damn disarming. “Relax, Calder. You’re going to wrinkle that cranky forehead of yours.”
“Pretty sure that ship has sailed.”
“Hmm.” She tilts her head. “I think the wrinkles are cute.”
I freeze.
She doesn’t seem to notice — or she pretends not to — bending to grab another box. Her sweater slides further, revealing a line of skin I absolutely shouldn’t look at but absolutely do.
It’s over in a second. Not the looking. That would take an act of God. But the moment — the moment where my guard slips.
Because when she stands again, she’s closer.
Too close.
Close enough that our hands brush when she reaches for the same box I do. It’s a split-second touch. Accidental. Nothing.
But it detonates in my chest.
She jerks her hand back like she’s been shocked, eyes wide for a heartbeat before she masks it with a flustered smile. “Uh — sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
The words come out low. Rough. Her breath catches. I should step away. I don’t.
Instead, I take the box from her, fingers grazing hers again — slower this time, a challenge I shouldn’t be issuing.
Her lips part. A mistake. A warning. An invitation.
I look away before I do something I can’t take back.
We work in silence. Thick silence. Every time she shifts, I notice. Every time she exhales, I hear it. Every time she brushes past me, the heat from her body punches through the cold air like a brand. And she keeps doing it. Brushing me. Bumping into me. Moving around me like gravity itself is messing with her equilibrium.
Or mine.
“Okay,” she says finally, dusting her hands on her jeans, “that’s the last of it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I don’t mean for it to sound like a growl. It just does.
She looks up at me, eyes soft. “You didn’t have to help.”
“Yes,” I answer, “I did.”
“Because it’s your job?”
“No.”
She swallows. Hard. “Because…?”
Because I can’t let you strain yourself. Because I can’t stand the thought of you slipping on ice. Because every time you ask me for anything, something in me answers before my brain can catch up. Because I’m already in deeper than I want to admit.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I grunt. “Because you’d probably climb inside the truck to reach something and get stuck.”
She splutters. “I would not.”
“Yes, you would.”
“You think I’m helpless?”
“I think you’re accident-prone.”
She steps closer, hands on her hips. “I am not accident-—”
Her boot slides on a patch of ice. I catch her by the waist before she hits the ground. Again. She blinks up at me, breath puffing white between us. “Oh.”
My hand tightens around her hip. Too tight. Her sweater is soft beneath my palm. Warm. Dangerous.
“You were saying?” I ask.
She swallows. “That was… situational.”
“That was predictable.”
“Maybe you’re just… everywhere I go.”
I stare at her. “Maybe you need someone everywhere you go.”
Silence drops like snow.
She lifts her chin. “Are you volunteering for that position, Calder?”
My pulse spikes. She’s teasing. But she’s not. She never is, not really.
“Lucy,” I say, voice low, “don’t start something you don’t want finished.”
Her breath hitches. She opens her mouth — no idea what’s about to come out — and then claps it shut again.
I loosen my grip on her waist — slow enough for her to feel every second of contact before I let go. We finish loading and unloading supplies, but nothing feels the same. Something snapped. Something tightened between us. She tries to pretend it didn’t happen and does a terrible job.
“So…” she says, brushing hair from her face, “you’re not as grumpy as you pretend.”
I turn to her. Slowly. “Who told you that?”
“No one.” She bites her bottom lip — unconsciously, I think, though it destroys every ounce of restraint I have left. “I mean, you pretend to be this big, bad grump, but sometimes… sometimes you’re just… not.”
“That’s extremely descriptive.”
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Do I?
“Maybe,” she says softly, “you use the grumpiness to hide the fact that you’re actually incredibly nice.”
“Lucy.”
“And sweet.”
“Lucy.”
“And heroic.”
“Lucy.” My voice drops into a warning growl she absolutely ignores.
Her smile turns mischievous. “And maybe you pretend to hate holidays because deep down you—”
I grab her wrist. Her breath catches like I’ve cut off the air. I step in close. Her back hits the side of her SUV. My body shadows hers. I don’t touch her except for the hand around her wrist, but it’s enough. It’s too much.
“Don’t,” I murmur, “finish that sentence.”
She sucks in a breath. “Why?”
“Because I’m trying to be decent.”
“Are you?”
“Barely.”
Her pulse races beneath my fingers. Her eyes flick to my mouth, then away, then back again.
I should release her.
I don’t.
I lower my head, enough that my breath brushes her cheek. “You think you know what I am,” I say, voice rough. “Grumpy. Guarded. Whatever other Christmas-themed labels you want to slap on me.”