Page 27 of Her Holiday Heartthrobs

That gives me the warm gooey feeling in my chest, so I smile at him. “Good. Now, this whole date thing. How much touching will be involved.”

“No touching.”

I raise my brow at him.

He grunts again. “Other than your hand on my arm, or mine at your back.”

“No butt touching, though, right?”

The dark look he shoots me screams scandalized. “Of course not.”

“I mean because…you’re technically my boss, right? Even though I don’t work directly under you.”

His nostrils flare, but he nods. “I literally sign your paychecks, Paige.”

“Like by hand?”

He nods.

“You know, they have machines for that now, right?”

“I am aware.”

I turn further, drawing my knees up on the seat between us. “Okay, Mr. Boss Man. Sir. So, little-to-no touching.”

I lean in further, close enough that I could touch him—would if we hit a bump. He tips his face my direction. “What are you doing?”

Shrugging, I try to bite back my smile and fail. “Not touching you.”

“Mm-hmm.” I swear he looks at my mouth for a heartbeat too long. Let’s blame it on the lipstick.

“What? I’m not touching. See?” I wave my hand between us. “At least a few inches.”

That tick in his jaw pulses.

“It’s the rules, right? That's why I’m not touching you.” I lean in to drop the few inches to one. “Still not touching you.”

His gaze darkens, pupils swallow the green in his eyes, and Jake’s hand is suddenly twisted in my hair, holding me in place. “You. Are playing with fire, Miss Monroe.”

I know I am, but I can’t seem to help myself. “Yes, sir.”

Another grunt. This time, low and gravelly.

It takes a few seconds for his grip on me to loosen and for me to fall back. Swiping a hand through my hair, I gather it over one shoulder. “You should really know better than to mess with a girl’s hair before an event, Mr. Young. It’s not the best way to start an evening.”

He practically growls in response, but less than a minute later, the car slows, and we pull into the round drive of a massive house—all white columns and old money. I’m leaning over the small space between our seats to get a closer look.

Jake clears his throat. We’re nearly pressed together like this.

“Sorry.” I back off again just in time for the door to open. After a blink, Jake slides out and offers me a hand. I take it and bask in the splendor of the scenery as the door closes behind us with a sharpsnap.

But we don’t move forward after I’ve catalogued at least six different varieties of winter-blooming flowers. Who would bother with their landscaping in December?

“Are we going inside? Or shall we stand around in the snow? Maybe build a fort or a snowman? How about start a snowball fight?”

His hand squeezes around mine before he leads me forward. The stiffness of his movements and hard lines of his face both scream how badly he does not want to be here.

If I thought the outside was beautiful, inside takes my breath away. It’s classic Christmas, all twinkling white lights, paleblues, glittering silvers, and is that an ice sculpture in the middle of the small buffet and the bar?

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