Page 52 of A Very Addicted Christmas

The smile in his honey-brown eyes, the one I imagined, lifts to my gaze.

I add fast, “You move one muscle from that fire, you’re going to turn into an icicle.” I flash him a grin. “I already see your weak California blood crystalizing as I speak.”

His smile grows as he lowers back to the hearth. Almost imperceptibly, his eyes do a one-two dart down my build.

Is he checking me out?

“Not all of us have warm sweatshirts like you,” he says brightly, smoothly.

So he’s just checking out my clothes then?

Jack openly gives me a once-over.

My blood warms like I’m next to him. Seated by the fire, and I grin more as he says, “You willing to part with it?”

He wants my sweatshirt?

At this exact moment in my life, stuck in this house, I don’t care if he thinks he’s flirting or if he believes he’s not flirting or if we’re on some strange flirt-loop.

I’m loving the distraction.

The exuberance.

The grins.

Without hesitation, I pull off my Yale sweatshirt and lightly chuck the clothing to Jack.

“You sure?” Jack asks, already two-seconds from pulling his arms through the holes.

“For sure.” I’ve never been more sure about anything right now. “It’s already in your hands, Long Beach,” I say with a laugh, especially as he wastes no time to claim my sweatshirt as his, pulling the fabric over his head.

In a single beat, a wave of dread crashes into me.

Does the sweatshirt stink?

No.

No.

“Soft.” Jack grins, fixing the collar. “I can see why you wear it all the time.”

“It smells better than it feels too,” I throw out.

Jack reels in my line and sniffs the collar.

My ass is sweating bullets, and I know it’s not just because I’ve walked a little closer to the fire. To him. “Like fresh flowers.”

“More like oak,” Jack says, eyeing me up and down again. “Some type of strong hardwood.”

I laugh into a bigger grin. “Hickory. Walnut?—”

“Can you smell it from that far away?” Jack teases, and I swear he’s a second from patting the hearth beside him. Or at least eyeing the open seat.

Somehow, someway, my hesitating ass loses the opportunity. Because Akara beats me to the spot. He lowers on the fireplace stone.

Not realizing he just cockblocked me from a flirt-fest, my boss shakes off the last remnants of melted snow from his shoulders and asks Jack, “Hey, Kong or Godzilla?”

“Godzilla. No question,” Jack says.

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