Page 24 of The Night Before Grumpmas
He knows exactly what he’s doing to me, doesn’t he? And the worst part? He’s right.
I could yell at Val for being the absolute worst for even hinting that I should take him up on his offer. Or, I could give Jacob a piece of my mind. But . . . do I really want to? Or is there a part of me wondering if he’d actually be that good with his mouth?
My eyes widen, and before I know it, I’m squeezing my thighs together as my mind races with all the possibilities of what he could do to me.
Jacob catches it—of course, he does—and his smirk grows. His eyes glint with that cocky, flirty energy that makes my pulse quicken. “I see you’re considering it,” he teases, voice low and smooth. “Here’s a proposition for you: stop invoking Santa Claus this early, and I’ll guarantee you an entire very merry season of orgasms.”
I gasp, my mouth falling open. “That’s . . . very bold of you.”
Before I can even think of a response, Val chimes in through the phone, “I’ll take him if you don’t want him.”
“You’re a married woman, Valentina Heart,” I remind her, still in shock. “I thought your husband was good in bed!”
Jacob doesn’t miss a beat. He leans in just a little closer, his gaze locking onto mine with laser focus. “I’m not justgoodin bed,” he says, voice dripping with arrogance. “I’m excellent on every surface—desks, kitchen counters, shower walls. You name it, satisfaction guaranteed.” His grin widens, wicked and sure. “I’m thorough. Every. Single. Time.”
“Take him,” Val says casually.
“You and I are no longer related,” I mutter, ending the call and yanking out my earbuds.
I try to gather the strength to deal with this—whatever this is. I hate how he’s making me feel, like some schoolgirl panting after the heartthrob who finally notices her. Nope. I wasn’t that girl then, and I’m definitely not going to be her now.
“How dare you butt into my conversation?” I snap, trying to salvage any shred of dignity I have left.
“As I’ve told you before, you should work on your inner voice,” he says, his smirk still firmly in place, clearly enjoying this way too much.
I gape at him. “You’re too controlling. Did you know that?”
“I’ve heard that a time or two, yes,” he replies, his smirk growing even more infuriating. “Which just means I’ll take control and make sure you’re pleased—every time.”
The nerve of this man. I glare at him, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens at his words. “Listen, I’m not sure what makes you think that . . . wait. Are you an escort? Is that why you’re offering me your services? That would explain the expensive suits and fancy apartment.”
His expression darkens, irritation flickering across his face. “I’m not an escort. Not that there’s anything wrong with being one.”
“You’re pushing your services pretty hard, McCallister,” I say, sighing as I try to regain some control. Being the flustered one in our conversations is not a good look, and I hate it. “Obviously, if you’re so eager for me to accept your ‘services,’ there must be an ulterior motive. What is it? How much were you planning to charge? Because I hope you weren’t expecting much—I work at a nonprofit. Hence the house-sitting and coffee shop gigs.”
He scoffs, clearly annoyed. “House sit? You live here and pretend it’s temporary. But”—he gestures toward my overly festive decorations—”this season, you’ll be packing your shit and leaving for good.”
“We’re back to kicking me out?” I sigh, exasperated. “You’ve really got to stop this nonsense. I’ve already told you, Grandma Holly needs me checking on her property. Do you have some deep-rooted issue with house sitters?”
“I’ll happily check on it,” he says, glancing at the door like it’s his next target. “I’ll make sure nobody loiters. Does she know it looks like the holidays threw up all over her front door? I already reported the balcony to the board.”
“Yes, I heard, and because of your generous complaint. Now I have to figure out how to decorate everyone else’s, too,” I shoot back, pretending to be annoyed. “Thanks for that. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do. Some of us have real jobs, you know. Unlike you, who just loiters around and complains about every little thing that happens in this building. Is your life really that miserable?”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it, clearly caught off guard. “I don’t complain about everything,” he finally mutters.
“Of course, you don’t. I get a call from Anna, one of the board members, at least twice a day about some new complaint you’ve made,” I say, shaking my head. “What’s your problem? Have you tried therapy? Do you hate people in general or just the holidays? Did something tragic happen in your childhood? Oh wait, I’ve got it, your parents?—”
“I’m going to stop you right there. My parents are perfectly nice people, and neither of them did anything for me to . . .” He trails off, frowning, like he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
“So youdohate the holidays,” I conclude, throwing out another wild guess. The more I distract him from the whole let’s give Noelle some orgasms thing, the better. Right?
“No, I don’t hate them. I was going to say?—”
“That your therapist hasn’t been able to help you with your anti-holiday disorder? It’s obvious you have all the symptoms,” I say, holding up a finger as if I’m about to present an airtight case. “You hate cinnamon candles, despise twinkly lights, and let’s not forget the uncontrollable rage every time you hear ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’ The evidence is damning.”
“You haven’t even played ‘Jingle Bell Rock,’” he protests.
“Oh, so you’re upset because I’m not playing your favorite song?” I say, pretending as if everything suddenly makes sense. I let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “That’s an easy fix.”
