Page 25 of Wrapped Up

As we playfully debate dessert merits, a memory flashes through my mind. The bar, that night. How effortlessly we'd fallen into conversation, trading quips and stories like we'd known each other for years. It was one of the reasons I'd trusted him; let my guard down. And let him fuck me senseless in that stairwell.

Heat floods my cheeks as memories wash over me. The way he'd tied my wrists together, his lips hot on my neck, his hands... God, his hands. I shift in my seat, acutely aware of his presence across the table. And to my own amazement, I find myself wishing he could do it all over again.

When the night winds down, dessert plates cleared and conversation ebbing. I find myself lingering, reluctant to leave the warmth of the evening. Jack's presence, once so unsettling, has become... comfortable. He didn't push, didn't try to charm his way past my defenses. Instead, he just was. Funny, passionate about his work, quick with a self-deprecating joke.

I hate to admit it, but I liked the man I saw tonight. And his explanation about Honey nags at me, a persistent whisper of possibility.

“Thank you both for an amazing dinner,” Jack says, his smile genuine as he embraces Anna and shakes Peter's hand.

“What are your plans for Christmas, Jack?” Anna asks, ever the hostess.

Jack's eyes crinkle at the corners. “Christmas Day is for family,” he says. “But the second day? That's all mine. Pajamas, movies, and absolutely zero responsibilities.”

The image of Jack lounging in pajamas, hair tousled from sleep, flashes unbidden through my mind. I push it away, cheeks heating.

Then he's in front of me, emerald orbs holding mine captive. “It was good to see you, Jennifer.” And with that, he turns, leaving me staring after him as Peter walks to the front door. Anna sidles up beside me, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

“You two had some serious chemistry going on,” she says.

I scoff, falling back on cynicism like a security blanket. “Please. The man's nothing but trouble.”

But even as the words leave my mouth, a traitorous voice whispers in the back of my mind.

Maybe. But what delicious trouble he could be.

Chapter8

Jennifer

Itoss the damp dish towel onto the counter, surveying my spotless kitchen with a mix of pride and frustration. It's barely noon on Boxing Day, and I've already cleaned every surface in my apartment twice. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind from wandering to dangerous territory.

As I move to the living room, my eyes land on the small Christmas tree in the corner. It's a pitiful thing, really—a two-foot artificial pine I bought on clearance years ago. I never bothered with many decorations, but one ornament catches my eye.

It's a delicate glass heart, cracked down the middle and held together with gold paint. A kintsugi heart, Anna had called it when she gave it to me last Christmas. "To remind you that even broken things can be beautiful," she'd said with a sad smile, knowing how raw my wounds still were from Felix's betrayal.

I reach out, my fingers tracing the golden fissure. For the past year, this ornament has been a perfect representation of my cynicism about love — broken, scarred, and pieced back together, but never quite the same.

But now, as I study it, I see it differently. The golden lines aren't just scars; they're a roadmap of resilience. The heart isn't weaker for having been broken; it's stronger, more beautiful for having survived.

Is that what Jack sees when he looks at me? Not someone broken beyond repair, but someone made stronger by their experiences?

I shake my head, trying to dispel the dangerous yearning blooming in my chest. But as I turn away from the tree, I can't help but glance back at the ornament. For the first time in a long time, I don't see it as a symbol of my broken heart, but as a promise of what could be.

With a sigh, I sink onto the couch, exhaustion seeping into my bones. Those thoughts I've been desperately avoiding crash over me like a tidal wave.

Jack.

I close my eyes, but it only makes his image more vivid. Those forest-green eyes, crinkling at the corners as he laughed. The way his stained sweater stretched across his broad shoulders as he reached for the salt shaker. The low timbre of his voice as he murmured, “I'll wait.”

“He's just a man,” I mutter, fingers digging into the couch cushions. “Nothing special. Nothing worth risking your heart over.”

But my traitorous body disagrees. Heat pools low in my belly as memories of that night in the stairwell flash through my mind. The way his hands gripped my hips and how his lips trailed fire down my neck. The delicious friction as he played with my—

“Stop it!” I hiss, jumping to my feet. I pace the living room, trying to outrun my own desires. But it's futile. With every step, new fantasies bloom.

Jack, pressing me against the bookshelf, his breath hot on my ear as he whispers filthy promises.

Jack, sprawled on my bed, eyes dark with want as I straddle him.

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