Page 39 of Booked for the Holidays
“What’s this?” I ask, turning it over in my palm.
She freezes. Her eyes dart from the box to my face. “That’s—That’s nothing. Put it back.”
I flip it open anyway. Inside is a vintage watch. Sleek. Timeless. Exactly my taste.
“Juniper.” My chest tightens. “You were thinking about me,” I say before I can stop myself.
Juniper’s eyes go wide for a half-second before her spine stiffens. “Don’t flatter yourself, Hargrove.” She snatches the boxfrom my hand, tucking it against her chest like she’s protecting something fragile. “I got that months ago when I was furniture hunting. It was meant for Jasper to give to his best friend for Christmas. Congratulations. You just ruined your own surprise.”
She lifts her chin, all defensive bravado and that sharp-edged pride I know too well.
I don’t push it. I don’t call her bluff, even if it’s written all over her flushed cheeks and the way she won’t quite meet my eyes.
I just nod, pretending to buy it. “Right. Then I’ll act surprised.”
“Yeah. Forget you saw it.”
“Hard to forget something perfect,” I say, but she’s already tucking it behind a pillow, like it never existed.
She hits play again, trying to bury herself in the movie. I grab another book to wrap and lean close enough that our knees brush.
On screen, Sandra Bullock is telling Bill Pullman she’s in love. Juniper’s hair brushes my arm when she shifts, her lips parting around a smile when I mutter about the world’s most crooked bow.
She sighs dramatically when I tape another bow lopsided.
“You’re hopeless,” she says, exasperated but soft. She shifts closer on the couch, tucking one leg under her. “Give me that.”
She reaches for the half-wrapped book in my hands. Our fingers brush. Warm skin against warm skin. It sends a jolt up my arm that I swear she feels, too, judging by the way her breath hitches.
“Look—” She wrestles the crumpled ribbon from my fist, her thigh pressing against mine. “You have to loop it under first. Like this.”
I lean closer, pretending I can’t figure it out just to watch her work. Even with the burn on her hand, her fingers move with quick confidence, tugging the ribbon snug around the paper.
“Then twist here, hold with your thumb—” She grabs my hand, positioning my thumb exactly where she wants it. I’m not even watching the ribbon anymore. I’m watching her mouth, the way her teeth catch her lower lip when she concentrates.
“And pull this loop through…” She finishes the bow, tight and perfect.
When she looks up, she realizes how close we are, but neither of us moves right away. Our hands stay tangled in the ribbon, hers warm over mine.
“There.” Her voice comes out softer than before. “It’s perfect.”
“Not bad,” I murmur, but my eyes aren’t on the bow. They’re on her. She knows it, too. Her throat bobs in a swallow, her breath puffing out just a little too quick.
“Next one’s yours,” she says, forcing her hands away like she needs distance to breathe. “Try not to butcher it.”
I pick up the next book, my fingers still tingling from where hers touched mine. “No promises.”
ELEVEN
JUNIPER
It’s barely10:00 a.m. and I’m irritated.
Not at Charlotte, who is back at work after her son’s fever broke last night, humming along to the instrumental holiday playlist as she straightens displays with far more care than necessary. Not at the new shipment of books stacked in the back room like a paper fortress waiting to topple. Not even at the coffee I spilled on my sweater earlier.
No, I’m annoyed because I haven’t seen Liam all morning.
Which is ridiculous. That is the goal. Fewer run-ins with Liam are preferable. Right?
