Page 16 of Her Christmas Fix
Her smile falters slightly, and I wonder if I said the wrong thing. Then she closes the distance between us, lifts on her toes, and kisses my cheek.
“Thank you.” She lets out a breathy laugh as she steps back. “You’re going to get sick of me thanking you over and over.”
“Highly unlikely,” I tell her, then take her hand and lead her out the door before the urge to lift her in my arms and carry her to my bedroom—to keep her all to myself—gets the best of me.
The night air is crisp, the sound and scent of the ocean clearing my lust-muddled head. Monika’s fingers interlace with mine, and it feels so right that I have to remind myself this is temporary.
“Tell me again how tonight is going to go,” she says as we walk toward my truck.
“Local artists, food trucks, probably some questionable folk music.” I open the passenger door for her. “Someone will try to sell you a knitted octopus with a Santa hat.”
“I’ll buy two.” She pauses before climbing into the truck, looking up at me with those storm-sea eyes. “It sounds absolutely perfect. And real.”
Damn if that doesn’t sum up what’s happening between us. My feelings for this woman are real in a way that scares the hell out of me because it has the potential for one of us getting hurt for real.
But as I walk around to the driver’s side, watching her settle back against the seat like she belongs there, I realize I’m already in too deep to pull back now.
8
MONIKA
“That’s not a wreath.It’s a cry for help.”
I mock glare at Griffin across the craft table set up in the conference room of the Wild Rose Point History Center, where my attempt at holiday wreath-making has gone seriously sideways. “It’s rustic and charming.”
“Also a fire hazard.” He reaches over and adjusts a rogue sprig of holly that’s sticking out at a ninety-degree angle. Let’s face it, my creation looks more like a bird’s nest that survived a tornado. “Is it holding itself together through sheer force of will?”
“Nope. I used wire.” I hold up my bleeding thumb as evidence. “I’ve got the battle scar to prove it.”
His gaze shifts from teasing to concerned as he grabs my hand to examine the small cut. “How did you manage to injure yourself with crafting supplies?”
“How many Band-Aids have I needed this past week? You know my talent with sharp objects.” I make a show of examining his wreath, trying to ignore how his thumb, gently rubbing mine, makes my stomach flip. “Where have you been hiding this secret Martha Stewart vibe?”
Griffin’s wreath is right off the cover of a holiday catalog, with perfectly layered bunches of holly, velvet ribbon woven through in elegant loops, and colorful ornaments spaced with mathematical precision.
He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the comparison, then ruins the bashful act by winking. “What can I tell you? I’m good with my hands.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say, sounding like I just swallowed a frog. His answering laugh is a deep, rich sound I want to bottle and keep forever. “You can fix mine, but I’m taking credit for it.”
“Deal.” He starts deconstructing my disaster with practiced efficiency, glancing at me, one brow quirking. “Having fun?”
He’s been checking in all evening, and maybe his protectiveness should annoy me. I’ve had more than enough of men trying to manage my life. But from Griffin, it feels like care instead of control.
“I am.” I lean back in the folding chair, watching his hands work. Those strong, capable hands have been gentle over the past week in ways that make my heart pinch. “Mrs. Muldoon telling me she’s seenTwo Of A Kind Heartseventeen times was actually sweet.”
“I need to check it out.”
My mouth drops open. “You haven’t seen it? That was my breakout role. The highest-grossing picture of the year it was released.”
“Sorry,” he offers with a frown, and I can tell he means it.
“I’m joking, Griffin. I like that you know the real me, not the Hollywood version.”
“I can’t imagine the Hollywood version holds a candle to the real you.” His focus is on the wreath, but the words are spoken with complete certainty. I want them to be true. “You were niceto that teenager who asked for a selfie. I know you didn’t want any?—”
“I appreciate having fans, and being nice to people isn’t hard.” I shrug. “Despite what the tabloids would leave you to believe.”
“The tabloids are full of shit.”
