Page 52 of Booked for the Holidays
Instead, I say, “You’re lucky I’m tall.”
“You’re lucky I haven’t shoved you into a snowbank yet.”
“I’d take it,” I grin. “If it means you’d climb on top of me.”
Her mouth falls open in mock scandal.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re irresistible.”
She doesn’t kiss me. But she looks at my mouth like she’s thinking about it.
“You’re soaked,” she says breathlessly, noting my damp coat.
“So are you,” I murmur against her ear.
Her breath hitches just as the door to the barn slams shut.
Martin, the Frosty Fir Tree Farm owner, breaks the spell. “You know we have people to do that.”
Juniper pulls away, clearing her throat. “My mom insisted. Wanted it to be personal.”
“Very personal,” Martin deadpans. He raises a brow at Juniper’s hat, then at me, then at the half-done entryway. “Looks good. Stella will love it.” He heads back inside without another word, leaving us in the swirl of fresh snow and too much unspoken tension.
I fight a grin while Juniper yanks the Santa hat off and smacks my arm with it.
A moment later her phone buzzes in her pocket. On a sigh, she pulls it out. I watch her expression drop the second she sees the screen.
“Everything okay?” I ask, already knowing the answer is probably no.
“It’s Charlotte,” she mutters, reading a new text with her teeth worrying her bottom lip. “Now she’s sick. Probably caught it from her son. She can’t help me tonight.”
“Help you with what?” I ask, stepping closer, drawn in despite how hard she keeps trying to shove me out.
“Restock. I have a huge shipment to unpack and shelve before the Books & Bubbly event this weekend. It’ll take all night on my own.” She tucks her phone away with an exhale that fogs in the cold air. “It’s fine. I’ll handle it.”
I reach for the end of the tangled lights in her gloved hand, coaxing her to look at me. “Not on your own you won’t. I’ll help.”
She arches a brow. “Don’t you have plans? Meetings? Something better to do?”
I grin. “Not tonight. Let’s finish this, then I’m helping you with the store. Non-negotiable.”
Her eyes narrow like she wants to argue, but her shoulders drop a fraction, that unguarded softness slipping through before she hides it again.
“Fine,” she mutters. “But if you mess up my display tables, you’re dead to me.”
I smile at her, ignoring the snow melting into my hair, ignoring the cold numbing my fingers, because the warmth I feel right now has nothing to do with the lights or the barn or the Santa hat bouncing over her forehead.
It’s her. It’s always been her.
SIXTEEN
JUNIPER
Logic wonout and I agreed to let Liam help me restock the store. That traitorous voice in my head didn’t realize I’d have to watch his sleeves rolled to the elbows, showing off those ridiculously strong forearms, and the veins that pop every time his big-ass hands grip a book spine before gently coaxing it onto the shelf. It’s downright obscene, and I can’t stop staring.
Add in the dreamy backdrop of my bookstore’s twinkle lights, the smell of pine garland, and the way he keeps smiling at me like I’m the only thing worth noticing. I’m doomed.
