Page 119 of The Crush of Christmas Past
“Our broken-hearted patrons are in the midst of a riveting discussion about the climax, and—frankly—yours is proving a bit distracting.”
I try to contain my laughter while Isla chokes out a strangled “So sorry.”
“You’re welcome to join us next Saturday night for our Between the Sheets Book Club,” Nick offers. “Our motto isZero Shelf Control—which seems to be up your alley. Or, well,aisle.” He motions across the corridor. “It’s also BYOD. Please don’t get any wild ideas—that D stands fordessert.”
Isla sways on her feet, looking perilously close to fainting.
“Now that’s settled, off with you two lovebirds,” Nick says, adjusting his glasses. “My science section can only handle so much chemistry.”
We watch him disappear out of sight before sharing a breath of relief.
“How am I supposed to work with him on the children’s wing revamp now?” Isla groans into her hands. “Did you hear what he said? We scandalizedScience! Defiled Dewey!”
“I’m sure Dewey has witnessed worse,” I tell her as we map out a stealthy exit. “Nightingale is no prude, either.”
“Well, this is one for the books. Literally. Getting edged by Librarian Santa—check.”
Mid-step, I freeze. “Excuse me?” I slowly pivot to face her, eyes narrowing. “What did you just say?”
She blinks up at me, all faux innocence. “Pretty sure Nick interrupted my orgasm. No release inNew Releases.”
My jaw flexes. “Sunshine.”
“Yes,Teddy Bear?” she taunts.
“The only person entitled to your orgasms—aside from you, of course—is me. Always. Forever.” My voice drops to a rumble that makes her pupils dilate. “I don’t share.”
Then I swat her ass. Hard enough to make her yelp with laughter, soft enough that she eagerly leans into the touch, begging for more.
“I just want to make sure the right man receives credit for how desperately I need to come right now,” she says with a smirk.
There’s a defiant edge in her voice that makes my cock throb with the need to make her eat those words. In every way imaginable. Preferably, on her knees.
Tugging her flush against me, I bend my mouth to her ear. “Keep teasing. We both know the credit for that sweet, soaked pussy is all mine. And I’ll gladly collect what I’m owed later tonight.”
I press a kiss to her cheek, then step back while I’m still somewhat in charge of my faculties. “But since you’re so keen on playing the role of a denied damsel, you’ll be happy to know we have a few more stops left on our tour.”
Her eyes widen. “More?”
I nod, relishing the blend of frustration and delight on her flushed face. “Come on, Sunshine. Let me walk you through all the ways this town loves you.”
Before I take youhome and show you how much I do.
The Gallagher Gallery is the next stop on our tour. Though a few people mill around the central exhibition space, the owner descends on us the moment we step through the door.
Buzzing like she’s running on adrenaline and multiple shots of espresso, Orla seizes Isla’s hands.
“Weaving fragments of local art across generations like a stitched quilt? Such inspired design!” she gushes. “We’ve never had international interest before. I truly believe your vision for entwining the past with the present is what brought attention to just how deep the talent runs in this town.”
Isla beams like the sun. Luminous and impossible to look away from. She lets the praise wash over her, brightening even further when Orla calls her idea of bringing on the Sinclair family’s private Starlight Summit collection “A stroke of genius!”
By the time the woman’s attention is pulled away by a potential client, Isla is a supernova. And I’m reveling in her light.
For the remainder of our visit, we explore the artwork at a leisurely pace. A devoted follower, I hang on Isla’s every word as she leads me through the ages, sharing stories about each display.
When we turn the corner to enter a smaller room at the back of the gallery, her steps stutter.
A wide acrylic landscape takes up the entirety of one wall. Intertwining quadrants show winter’s snowfall melting into spring blossoms, and the summer sun fading beneath autumn’sfire. The same fixed perspective, presenting four different versions of the springs.
