Page 38 of Booked for the Holidays
“Don’t grin at me like that,” she snaps, cradling her hand, cocoa dripping down her wrist. Her eyes shine with embarrassment and pain. “God, that’s hot. Ow, ow, ow.”
“Let me see.” I reach for her, but she tries to twist away, glaring at me over her shoulder.
“I’m fine?—”
“Juniper.” My voice leaves no room for debate. I catch her wrist gently, turning it over to inspect the reddened skin. “Where’s your first aid kit?”
She mutters something under her breath about bossy CFOs and points her chin toward the bathroom. I guide her to the couch instead. “Sit. I’ll get it.”
When I come back, she’s perched at the edge of the cushion, fussing with the sleeves of her cardigan like she’s trying to hide inside it. I kneel in front of her, first aid kit open at my side.
“It’s not that bad,” she protests as I dab at her skin with a cool cloth. She hisses and glares at me like it’s my fault.
“It’s okay to let someone take care of you.”
Her eyes dart to mine. There’s so much she wants to argue with in that sentence, I can see it. But the words never come out. She just watches me work, her lips pressed together.
When I’m done, I blow gently on the tender spot, half to soothe it, half because I can’t resist. Her breath catches.
“There,” I say, my voice lower now. “Good as new.”
“Don’t push it,” she murmurs, but her tone is softer than before.
I ease back, giving her space she doesn’t actually ask for. My gaze lands on the pile of half-wrapped books stacked on the coffee table.
“What are those?”
“The blind date with a book bingo prizes for my event this weekend.”
“You can’t finish these one-handed,” I say. “You’ll make a mess.”
She snorts. “Oh, and you’re a wrapping paper expert now?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Do you want help or not?”
She gives a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But if you ruin my aesthetic, I’m making you redo every single one.”
“Deal.” I sit beside her, our shoulders almost brushing. “What’s the theme?”
She hands me a book, our fingers brushing. “The theme ismagic under the mistletoe.Figure it out, genius.”
I grin and reach for the tape. “You know, these hands are pretty capable. I think I can manage some tape and paper.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips now. “We’ll see.”
She hits play on the TV.While You Were Sleepingflickers to life—Sandra Bullock in a bulky sweater, Chicago blanketed in snow.
Perfect.
We work in silence for a while—except for the movie dialogue and her occasional muttering when I fold a corner crooked. She keeps bossing me around like I’m a new hire at her little indie empire.
“Less tape, Hargrove,” she says, pointing with her good hand. “Neater edges.”
“Bossy,” I mutter back. “You’d be a terrible subordinate.”
Her eyes light with a wicked gleam. “Good thing I’m in charge.”
She reaches to grab another book, but a small velvet box tumbles out from under a stack on the coffee table. I catch it before it hits the floor.
