Page 72 of The Holiday Clause
“Yes.”
She pivoted and drew back. Angling her chin up, she glared at him with fire in her eyes. “That’s not fair, Greyson. You’re actually losing money on supply costs?—“
He took a step closer, purposely crowding her until her back nearly touched the wall. He couldn’t intimidate her—she knew him too well for that—but, this time, she wasn’t getting her way. “It’s fair enough.”
“No, it’s not. The materials alone... Your labor...”
He wondered how anyone could have that much hair. Distracted by her long braid, he remembered his earlier yearson fishing boats and recalled his father teaching him and his brothers all about nautical knots. Some part of him ached to braid her hair a thousand different ways, simply because he knew how.
“Are you listening to me?”
“No.”
“Damn it, Greyson!”
He grabbed the braid, sliding the thick length through his hand like silk rope and tugging her closer, the texture soft against his calloused palm.
“I...” She lost her train of thought, pupils dilating as her breath caught.
Good. He liked seeing her all worked up, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with anger. “You what?”
“I...”
He followed the braid to the tapered end, just above her ribs, and let his fingers linger there, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breathing.
Her breath hitched. “Greyson...” She looked up at him in question, confusion and desire warring in her expression. “We’re having a fight.”
“No, we’re not.”
He told himself this wouldn’t happen again, but then she stormed into his home, feisty and hot-tempered, and he forgot why he made such a promise. He could throw her onto his bed and bury himself inside of her in two seconds flat.
Would she stop him?
Given the current trend, probably not.
His cock throbbed at the possibility and he swallowed hard. The temptation only an inch away. His bed a mere ten feet. He pictured the tight grip of heat and—“You shouldn’t have come here.”
She noticeably swallowed, her shoulders lifting with each shallow breath. “Why?”
“You know why.”
Her gaze lowered to his bare chest and held, taking in every ridge of muscle and each old scar. She trembled, but he didn’t think it stemmed from fear. She knew he’d never hurt her. But he wasn’t sure she was safe with him anymore.
Taking a baby step forward, her chest brushed his through that negligible strip of clothing she tried to pass off as a shirt.
He took in every subtle tell. The hitch of her breath quickening. The slight parting of her lips. The way her body trembled harder than it had a moment ago.
“Do I scare you?”
“No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’m only afraid you’ll push me away.”
A realistic fear to have. And strange how he feared this time he might not possess the strength. “You don’t want that?”
“No, Grey, I don’t want that. I’ve had that, and it hurts.”
He never wanted to hurt her, but somehow always managed to. “You shouldn’t look at me like that, Wren.”
“Why?”
