Page 19 of The Holiday Clause
“So…who was that guy?” The front door chimed again, and another draft curled past his legs.
Wren pulled a broom from the closet and started sweeping the studio. “What guy?”
“The one who walked out of here like he just found religion.” He nodded toward the hallway, jaw tense.
“Noah?” She laughed, light and dismissive. “He’s harmless.”
Greyson glared at the empty corridor and walked further into the studio. His eyes didn’t leave her body as she swept the sunlit sprinkle of dust into a pile.
A flicker of heat crawled up his spine. He really needed to get laid. Jerking off wasn’t cutting it anymore.
Clearing his throat, he forced himself to look away. “Where did you say the shovels are?”
“I didn’t. I’m sure my shovels are fine, Grey.”
“We’ve got another eight inches of snow coming. It’ll make cleanup easier.”
She stopped sweeping and hung her weight on the broom handle. “My shovels aren’t your responsibility.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. On some level, he always felt responsible for Wren—and her shovels. “It’s no trouble.”
“From what I hear, you’ve got problems of your own to deal with. Your brothers told me all about your situation when they nearly ran me over this morning.” She moved closer and lowered her voice. “You sure you’re here for my shovels, Grey? Or are you looking for something else?”
His cock twitched and he took an intentional step forward, close enough that her head had to tip back to look at him and looming enough that there was no mistaking his position.
“Just the shovels,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
She held his stare, wisps of sandy blonde hair framing her face. How the hell did she get all that hair into that knotted chaos on her head she called a bun? A faint sheen of sweat clung to her skin, and he breathed deep, resenting the scent of eucalyptusand cedar coming from the steaming diffuser in the corner that masked her familiar fragrance.
The tiny brown flecks in her blue-green eyes mesmerized him as they stood, locked in a challenging stare. Too close. He stepped back and he swore a look of disappointment flashed in her eyes.
“The shovels are in the shed.” She tipped the broom handle against his chest and let it go. “I’ll grab them.”
“I can get them.” He was at the back door in two strides, propping the broom against the wall.
“I said I’ll grab them.”
He scowled at her tiny feet. “You’re not wearing shoes.”
“So.”
“So, have a little common sense.”
“The ground won’t hurt me. It’s actually good for you to stand barefoot outside.”
“Maybe in summer.”
“In any month.”
He was not falling for her nature mysticism. “It’s twenty-six degrees out, Wren. That’s how people get sick.”
She groaned and pushed past him, but he yanked her back before she could set foot out the door. Her eyes narrowed and locked with his.
“Greyson.”
He wasn’t thinking about the shovels anymore. “Don’t be stubborn.”
“I’mbeing stubborn?” She laughed. “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”
