Page 35 of Booked for the Holidays
After I ring them and another customer up, I make a beeline for the cozy reading nook between romantasy and LGBTQIA+ romance. There, in my carefully curated nook, I find Liam sprawled in the plush pink armchair like he pays rent here. Dark wool coat draped over the chair. Henley sleeves pushed up just enough to show an erotic amount of inked forearm. One ankle crossed over his knee like he’s too cool to sit properly.
And in his hands? My annotated copy of Pippa Monroe’s latest book.
My tabs. My notes. My secret desires.
“I’m sorry, is this your villain origin story?” I ask.
He barely glances up. “It might be. Chapter thirteen is particularly engrossing.”
“Hey,” I reach for the book, but he shifts back, holding it just out of reach. “You stole that from my apartment.”
He shrugs, not fazed by my accusation. “Your coffee table is basically public domain.”
His outstretched arm lifts his shirt, exposing a taunting sliver of hard abs. Of course.
“Yeah, well, that book is off limits.”
I do my best not to ogle the unfair display, bracing my hands on the back of the chair as I lean closer, fingers stretching for the book.
With a smirk that’s lazy and infuriating, he shifts it just out of reach.
It’s just like last night with his phone and that photo he took of us.
He may have saved that photo in time, but this—my annotated book—he can’t have.
I lunge a little harder, but it’s a big mistake. My balance slips, the chair legs screech, and the next thing I know, I’m toppling straight into his lap with an ungracefuloof.
His free arm comes around my waist, steadying me like this was his plan all along.
“Chapter thirteen has a lot of tabs,” he murmurs, voice warm against my ear. “I’m taking notes.”
“Notes for what?” I snap, trying to twist away but only managing to settle in deeper against him.
“What you like.”
Heat coils low in my belly, no matter how hard I glare.
“I’m this close to throwing you out.”
“You won’t.” His grin widens and it’s pure sin. “You’re too intrigued by what I’ve learned.”
He taps one of the pretty pink tabs with maddening precision. “You’re a sucker for enemies-to-lovers. Slow burn.Banter. Forbidden tension. And apparently—” his eyes flick to mine, dark and wicked, “mirror sex.”
My entire body bursts into flames. It’s hard to pinpoint if I’m seething mad or turned on. Maybe both. It’s our conversation in the bathroom this morning all over again.
“Those are fictional preferences,” I hiss.
He shuts the book with a soft thud, his mouth so close I feel the brush of every word. “Then let’s do a case study. Compare fantasy with reality. It’d be purely academic, of course.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Just passionate.” He winks. “And according to page 297, you like that.”
I want to scream. Or kiss him. Or maybe throttle him.
Before I can decide which, I glance toward the checkout counter and freeze.
A line. A full-on holiday rush, half-off-bookmarks kind of line.
