Page 52 of Holiday at Home
And then his lips are on mine.
My hands slip under his shirt, desperate for skin.
His fingers slide into my hair and we’re moving deeper into the office, kicking the door closed. He swipes my desk clean and I hop onto it, lifting my arms as he pulls off my sweater, closing my eyes as his mouth trails down my neck.
He whispers my name and I arch my back and then all sense of knowing is gone and I’m lost in sensation, lost in the brush of his fingers against my skin, the thrust of his hips, the taste of his tongue.
Lost in him.
21
Simon
Robbie
Where are you man? The natives are getting restless
I shove my phone back into my pocket, then work the button on my pants, watching as Violet slips her red lace bra back into place. Her hair is tousled. Her cheeks flushed. Her office is trashed, paperwork crammed to one side of the desk, some still slipping and seesawing to the floor. Her underwear hangs off her computer monitor.
“What’s got you grinning?” she asks with a grin of her own.
“You,” I say simply, then pluck her undies off the monitor and hand them over.
We tidy the office as best we can and I sneak a text back to Robbie.
If by natives you mean Nash, buy him a cocoa or something
We’re on our way
Way ahead of you on the cocoa
But I’m talking about me, man. You know how bad I am at waiting
We’re headed out now
Fire up the snow machines, turn on the twinkle lights, and release the playlist
“You look like a Bond villain.” Violet folds her arms and cocks her head. “In that black coat and red scarf, the collar popped, hunched over your phone like you’re hiding something.”
I slide the phone into a pocket.
“Funny, I don’t feel like a villain.”
And while I know she’s joking, part of me wonders if that’s still how she sees me. As the bad guy. The man who broke all his promises and left her to fend for herself.
Which would be fair. And is exactly what I’m trying to make up for.
“Come on,” I say, threading my fingers through hers. “I apparently have an image to rewrite.”
22
Violet
Simon pulls to a stop in a parking spot at the YMCA. I turn to him, confused. From gifts on my porch every morning for weeks, to festive dinners at rehabilitated lighthouses, from making sure I decorated my house, to skipping his family’s ski trip to take care of me, he’s been nothing but romantic and sweet and thoughtfully grandiose. I’m not sure what I expected tonight, but the YMCA isn’t it.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
Implicitly, says my heart while my mind dutifully conjures up a snapshot of me, standing by the tree in Town Square one fateful Christmas Eve, phone pressed to ear, heart in my stomach, tears wavering in my eyes.
