Page 47 of The Crush of Christmas Past
Neither to enter, nor to leave.
“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” I snap, scrambling to my knees.
“I have.” He clears his throat. “Didn’t you hear me knock? Multiple times.” His gaze bounces, lingering on my right hand. “Suppose you were…busy.”
Heat floods into my every pore. “I was…uhh…working on a project.” I gesture feebly toward my tablet.
“Understood.” The corners of his mouth quirk up. “I’m a strong advocate for hands-on development.”
“Theo!” I hang my head, hiding my flaming cheeks behind a curtain of hair. “I’m already dying of embarrassment. Please don’t make it worse.”
“If I don’t make light of this, Isla”—his voice drops into a husky rasp—“I’ll keep picturing you splayed out on your back, hand down those tiny little shorts. And then—”
My attention snaps up. “And then…?”
His lips flatten. “I should go.” Without another word, he turns to leave.
“Wait!” The plea flies out more urgently than I’d intended. “Umm…” I take a steadying breath and nod toward the box. “My ornaments.”
Theo pauses at the threshold, his shoulders tensing, but he doesn’t look at me. Instead, he strides over to Asher’s desk and sets down the box with a sharp, controlled motion. “You’re all set.”
“Thanks.”
He’s almost out of the room when I call for him again. “Wait. Can you…” My heart clenches in my chest, but I push through. “…help me?”
He freezes, his back still to me. My question hangs in the air for such a long time that I regret bringing it up.
I’m about to tell him to forget it, but he slowly turns.
When his eyes meet mine, they’re filled with understanding. Long gone is the heat his gaze previously held. Instead, I’m hit with a tenderness that makes me shiver in a whole new, different way.
“You want help with the tree?”
I nod. “I don’t want to be alone for this,” I whisper. “Stay.Please.”
Sixteen
Isla
WhydidIaskhim to stay?
The mirror offers no answer. My reflection stares back at me, cheeks flushed and eyes wide.
I ran into Asher’s en suite under the guise of washing my hands, but no amount of soap can rinse away the humiliating truth: I made myself come to the fantasy of the very man my mind and body are supposed to be boycotting.
And he definitely knows.
Gripping the edge of the sink with both hands, I lean against the cool porcelain and beg my nerves to chill the hell out. My breaths are shallow as my heart rate puts in overtime. I’m equalparts mortified and turned on.
That combination alone should’ve been enough to make me kick the man responsible for this entire mess out of the room. Instead? I begged him to stay and help with the one thing that—without fail—shreds my heart to pieces every December.
Groaning, I splash my face with cold water, savoring its icy bite. It brings a flash of clarity, but it’s short-lived. When I straighten, the pressure on my lungs intensifies.
By the time I step back into the bedroom, Theo has shifted the ornament box so it sits next to the tree. He stands beside it, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. The pastel glow of the Christmas lights bathes his features in soft hues, catching on the sharp angles of his jaw, the firm line of his mouth, and the furrow in his brow.
He glances over as I approach, his expression unreadable. For a moment, neither of us speaks, but the air between us thrums with anticipation.
Finally, he breaks the silence, tilting his chin toward the box. “Didn’t want to touch anything until you were ready.”
