Page 88 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
He stiffens.
I stiffen.
God, did I mean to say that?
He slides his gaze to me. “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean. It will just make it harder when...”
Next week. That’s when the show ends. That’s when Sebastian flies home. That’s when we pretend we never meant anything to each other, that we never cared, that our hearts don’t ache and our bodies don’t ache, confused, why we are not in each other’s presence.
“I’m serious about you,” I say.
“You shouldn’t be.”
“I am. All the same, I am.”
He stares at me in wonder, then his gaze dips down. “It doesn’t matter either way.”
I sigh. “I don’t think you’re understanding the situation.”
“The thousands of miles separating us? The fact you’re soon going to announce your engagement to some woman?”
“The fact we’re in a closed room with a massage table.”
“Oh.” His eyes round, his cheeks pinken, his pink tongue wets his pink lips. “Oh.”
I scoop him up in my arms and place him on the massage table. Then I remove his tie, moving the silky fabric in my hands.
He narrows his eyes. “I seem to remember having to tie your bow tie for you.
“You’re responsible for tieing it back on,” I say.
He snorts. “Remind we why we’re doing this?”
I capture his lips with my own, then suck on his tongue. Heat surges through me.
I draw back, and his eyes are glazed. “I remember. God, I remember.”
I smirk. “Good.” Then add, “time waster.”
“Luckily I am an expert clothes remover.”
“You are?”
“Uh-huh.” He nods madly. “Physical activity isn’t totally my thing, not like for you, but I’ll have you know that I’ve been taking off my own clothes for decades.”
I chuckle. “You are an expert.”
He gives a modest shrug. “And I don’t spend my days in button-less and zipper-less athletic wear.”
“Hey!”
“Just saying.”
I punch him, and he punches me, and then suddenly we’re both working on tearing off his clothes.
“A massage doesn’t have to be naked,” he says.
“Is that the direction you want to take this in?” I ask.
