Page 151 of The Holiday Clause
“Astrid.” Greyson nodded in greeting, never taking his eyes off Drummond.
Wren’s heart fluttered, but not in a good way. She kept her eyes on Grey’s scowling face, not daring to leave to find the tweezers. “Lilly, see if there’s a pin or something in the drawer at the front desk.”
“I need to speak to you,” Greyson growled.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Drummond interrupted. “But you both work here and I’m the guest, right? We were in the middle of something.”
Greyson turned his head, his attention slowly returning to Drummond as if he were a glob of shit on his new shoes. Before he could say anything, Wren pushed him into the stock room closet. “Pardon us. We’ll just be a minute.” She shut the door and turned on him. “Grey, you cannot growl at my guests.”
The cramped space reeked of industrial cleaning supplies and fresh linens, but underneath it all, Greyson’s familiar masculine scent of cedar and something uniquely him, made her pulse quicken. Shelves of toilet paper and towels boxed them in, creating an intimate prison where every breath seemed to echo.
“Fuck that guy.” Thankfully, his voice muffled behind the shelves stocked with paper products. But she still worried the guests might overhear.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Why were you touching him?”
“I wasn’t?—“
“Wren.”
“Fine. I did. But only in a professional sense. I simply pointed out that he carried some tension in his shoulders so he would get off my back about the sound therapy starting in an hour.”
“I don’t want you touching him.”
The possessive rasp in his voice sent heat spiraling through her belly. “Well…I don’t want you ignoring me to chop wood all night. Why are you even here?”
He drew back. “I told you I’d come to take you home.”
She frowned. “No, you didn’t.”
“I texted you.”
She pulled out her cell and flashed the screen. “No, you didn’t. I’m the one who texted you.” She showed him her thread of unanswered texts, and he growled.
“This is why I tell you to use a radio. These things are completely unreliable.”
In the cramped space of linens and supplies, tension seemed to ricochet off the walls as quickly as it radiated from his broad shoulders. There wasn’t enough oxygen to think straight, especially when he was sucking it out of the room with one threatening look after another.
The rough metal shelving pressed against her back while his imposing frame blocked any escape. “Look, I’m sorry if I missed your text, but that’s not my fault.”
“Well, it’s not mine either. I’ve been texting you since I woke up alone this morning. Where did you go?”
“Home. And you woke up alone, because you went to bed alone.”
“Only because you were sick and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Are you sure about that?” She held his stare.
“Yes, Wren,” he said through gritted teeth. “You were coughing all night. You needed rest.”
“Well, I’m better now.”
“Good,” he snapped. “Glad to hear it.”
“Me too,” she snipped back, unsure why she was using her illness as the means for this argument. But her feelings were hurt and her head was a mess all day, and she needed some damn answers. If he wanted out, she wanted to know, sooner rather than later, so she gave him an open invitation to exit. “We can pretend it never happened, Grey.”
His eyes narrowed. “Oh, it happened.”
