Page 51 of Booked for the Holidays
She looks at me, cheeks pink from more than just the cold. “He said you had to earn it.”
“I plan on it,” I say quietly.
Her mouth curves, like she’s fighting a smile she doesn’t want me to see. She rolls her eyes instead, turning away too fast. “Good luck, Hargrove.”
Ten minutes later, she’s on the ladder, arm outstretched toward a nail while I anchor the base.
“I swear if this ladder tips?—”
“I’ve got you,” I say. And I do. In every way.
She stretches higher, the hem of her coat rising just enough to reveal the backs of her thighs in thick tights. I try not to look. I fail miserably.
“I need another clip,” she calls down.
I fish one out of my pocket. “Catch.”
It smacks her in the chest and disappears into the snow.
She glares down at me. “You’re useless.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re beautiful.”
She goes still. For one beat. Two.
Then she shakes her head like she’s shaking the thought of me loose. “Focus, Liam.”
Oh, I’m focused. On the way her breath fogs when she laughs. The way she keeps choosing to be near me even when she doesn’t want to. The way I’m pretty sure I’ve never wanted someone more in my life.
She clips the last strand in place, then starts down the ladder.
“Careful,” I say, holding out my hands.
“Relax, I’m?—”
Her boot slips, but I catch her.
Again.
Now she’s pressed to me. Her hands gripping my coat. My arms locked around her waist, her breath hitching just slightly.
“This is getting to be a habit,” she whispers.
“You falling for me?” I ask, stupidly hopeful.
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t move. “I meant the slipping.”
“Same thing.”
A beat passes. Then she laughs—soft and unexpected—and I swear I feel it in my ribs.
“What?” she says, still in my arms.
I don’t say the truth. I can’t yet.
