Page 31 of Booked for the Holidays
Water clings to the edge of his jaw. And his perfectly golden bare chest.
Damn. This is not very helpful to my morning routine. Or my sanity.
His entire chest is on display, and it’s unfair how devastating he looks.
My eyes zero in on his tattoos. The one beneath his collar bone. The one across his ribs. And the one on the inside of his right arm. The tattoos he revealed with every holiday drink sample we consumed. Then there are the ones I haven’t seen. Another handful in various places that have my eyes feasting with each new discovery.
“Did you need something?” I ask, eyes now firmly fixed on my own reflection.
He doesn’t move. Just leans one shoulder against the doorframe, his gaze flicking up to the ribbon in my hair.
“Just admiring the view.”
I give him a look.
“The bow,” he clarifies, smile tugging at his mouth. “You always looked good in pink.”
For a moment, it feels like we’re back to that flirty, chemistry-laced place we were last year at the liquor store. When I thought I felt something bubbling between us. Something warm, real, and maybe even worth hoping for.
How wrong I’d been.
I’m not about to mistake kindness for intention. Not again.
“Like you noticed,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
“I’m not wearing it for you,” I say, loud and deliberately.
“Didn’t say you were.” His dark eyes spark with amusement, all smug and utterly Liam. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it.”
He pushes off the doorframe, stepping past me to the second sink at the vanity.
As he passes by, I inhale a familiar scent.
Winter plum. It’s the scent of my seasonal shampoo.
“Did you use my shampoo?” I ask.
“Yeah, I forgot to pack some. Hope that’s okay?” His smile widens, picking up the razor on the counter. “It smells good. Festive.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out because now all I’m picturing is Liam standing in my shower, steam curling around him, water running down his chest, descending his stomach to where his?—
I stop my runaway thoughts, refusing to think about Liam’s naked body in the shower. Imagining what it would be like if had his hand wrapped around his—damn it, I just did it again.
Gah. I need to get control of this situation.
“I guess if you want to smell like a girl,” I tease.
“Not just a girl.” He dips his razor under the faucet, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “Like you.”
That shouldn’t sound provocative. It shouldn’t make heat unfurl low in my stomach like a match has been struck, but it does.
“You know, I might’ve used that purple loofah, too. The fluffy one hanging on the hook.”
The razor slides against his jaw. He looks so casual, shaving in my bathroom like he’s done it a thousand times, and he plans to do it another thousand more.
It’s fascinating and sexy, and I hate that I can’t stop staring at him. Can’t stop wondering what it would be like if he were here every morning.
