Page 52 of The Crush of Christmas Past
With a frustrated groan, I toss the towel aside and storm toward the closet, hunting for anything that’ll hide the undeniable evidence of my weakness.
The plan for the rest of the day is simple: stay put, drown in work, and pretend Isla doesn’t exist.
Just like I’ve mastered.
I’m halfway across the room when the door blasts open.
“Fine! I give up. I’ll do whatever you want. Just give it to me!” A redheaded tempest barrels in, slamming it shut behind her with enough force to rattle my spine.
For a second, I’m convinced I’ve cracked. Finally snapped. Hallucinated her arrival like some deranged, sex-deprived madman.
Panicked, I grab the first object within reach—the damn Santa shirt—and clutch it in front of me like a cotton-blend shield.
It offerszerocoverage, and Isla’s wide-eyed gasp confirms it.
Too bad the sound only makes things worse.
So much worse.
Just when I think she’s about to bolt, she steps closer and lets out a startled laugh. “Santa’s sack just got a whole new meaning.” Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, but her gaze doesn’t falter. “You trying to steal the client from under me? Because there’s no way I can compete withthiskind of marketing move.”
“Ever heard of knocking?” I bite out, fighting the grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“Payback for your little intrusion yesterday.” The pitch of her voice rises slightly—the only tell she’s not as unaffected as she pretends to be. “I didn’t actually expect to get lucky.”
“Oh, you think you’re getting lucky?” I raise a brow, my smirk widening as I clock the shift in her posture and the deep crimson flush spreading across her cheeks.
“I didn’t mean…” Her head dips, rust-colored lashes sweeping her skin as if she could blink away the heat staining it.
It’s fucking adorable.
But when she looks back up, her hand gestures to my front, subtly drawing attention to the evidence of my arousal. “I meant…catching you in the act.”
“I wasn’t in anyact.” My denial is much too quick and far too guilt-laced.
“Then what were you doing?”
“I…” I straddle the line of laying it all in the open. Figuratively, considering I’m already stark naked.
Her gaze blazes across my body, and I burn beneath it. Not from shame. From something darker. More primitive.
This moment—me laid bare before her—crackles with dangerous energy.
“Asher told me the truth about your relationship,” I tell her, careful to keep my tone steady.
Her eyes flare in surprise. “What? When? Why?” she sputters. “How long have you known?”
“Does it matter?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s always been you, Isla. Knowing you were with my brother didn’t change a damn thing.”
She sucks in a breath, her gaze dropping from my eyes to my mouth, then trailing down my chest before sinking south.
I yank the Santa shirt tighter, the cotton molding to my flesh. For one reckless second, I want her touch instead.
Her hands. Her mouth. Her heat.
