Page 8 of One-Click Christmas
Holly’s whisper pauses my racing thoughts. “You’re staring.”
I blink, tearing my gaze away from the massive man still answering questions at the podium. “I’m not.”
“You are, like you’re trying to read the footnotes of his soul.”
I laugh, but it’s thin. She has me dead to rights.
I want to know who makes him ache, who makes him long, and why he needs me if he has her.
“Oh God,” Holly bites back a grin, “he’s coming this way.”
I glance in his direction, though I don’t know why. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
She arches a brow. “Tell that to your face.”
“That noticeable?”
“Very noticeable. You look like you’re going to throw up and come all at once.” She glances at the clock. “Just in time, too. Your shift is up.”
I’m done? The day is over? How the hell is the day over already, and how the hell am I going to entertain this guy for the rest of the night?
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I unpin my name tag with trembling fingers, heart thudding like it’s trying to find the exit door.
Hunter makes his way through the crowd, eyes locked on mine like he’s already written the next scene and I’m the only one who doesn’t know my lines.
Holly slips away with a wink, leaving me standing there like an idiot who’s forgotten how to speak, how to breathe, how to be cool.
What did I get myself into?
He stops in front of me, close enough that I catch the scent of cedar on his skin. It’s warm, earthy, and familiar. It’s almost like he belongs here.
“Ready?” he asks, voice low, like it’s meant for just me. “I need a break from the lights.”
I nod, but it’s not my voice that answers. It’s the heat crawling up my spine, and the way my body leans toward his like gravity itself has a crush.
We’re moving. I don’t remember how, but I’m in motion, and soon we’re stepping out into the cold December air, shoulder to shoulder. It’s then that I realize this isn’t his story anymore.
It’s mine, and I want to be wrecked by it.
Chapter Four
Hunter Black
Lana walks beside me, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, chin tucked down into the collar as though she wants to disappear.
“Am I making you nervous?”
She shakes her head and glances up toward me. “No, not at all. Why would you think that?”
“You’re tucking into your shell like a turtle in a thunderstorm.”
She huffs out a tight laugh. “Just cold.”
I don’t press her, but I make note of it, cataloging the strain in her voice, the curve of her shoulders, the way she catches her breath before she speaks. That’s what writers do. We hoard moments, we steal, we listen closely and watch as the world unravels around us, then we make up stories about it. We exaggerate the truth and bring life to otherwise innocuous events.
Some think the concept is romantic, ethereal in some dreamy sort of way.
It’s not. It’s work.
