Page 6 of My Sweetart Holidate

No matter how surprising the conversation or the chemistry was last night, I’ll never see her again. It’s better this way. My favor is fulfilled.

Fuck it. I wrap my hand around my cock, starting with soft strokes as I picture those dazzling eyes from across the table. The way her heart-shaped necklace kept disappearing into the valley of her tits, making it impossible not to imagine what those bountiful globes look like outside that sweater. The scent of roses surrounding me as we flirt in the open doorway of her hotel room.

I stroke a little faster.

My bicep tingles where Charlotte cupped her hand, her fingers digging in as she tried to tug me inside her room. Desire like molten lava in her sparkling hazel eyes.

I’m close to the edge.

The doorbell goes nuts.

“What the—”

Followed by incessant pounding on the front door.

“Somebody better have fucking died,” I grumble, tossing aside the sheets and searching for a pair of sweats to hide my predicament. Hoping like hell it’s some solicitor I can chase off easily enough. Unless the dumbass got stuck in a snowbank. The trek to my cabin isn’t for the faint of heart or anyone in anything less than a four-wheel drive vehicle.

The doorbell rings repeatedly.

“I’m coming,” I roar, rushing to answer it if only to silence the shrill ring.

The doorbell abuser doesn’t hear me.

I yank the door open, ready to read whoever’s on the other side the riot act. But when I meet Grandma Olive’s kind, innocent eyes head on, my anger dissipates. She smiles up at me sweetly, lifting a covered baking dish in offering. I’m ninety-nine percent certain her homemade cinnamon rolls are hiding beneath the moose patterned dishtowel.

“Grandma Olive, how did you get here?” I peer over the top of her head, spotting a truck almost as big as mine in the snowy drive and a man waiting behind the wheel. “Who is—”

“Can I come in?”

“Um, yeah. Of course.” I step back and pull the door all the way open. “I didn’t expect you.”

“I’m sorry to show up unannounced, but your sister insisted it was urgent.”

“Maggie?”Shit. Did Charlotte threaten her reputation all because I refused to sleep with her?

Grandma Olive darts right for the kitchen, leaving me to follow her quick-paced steps. All that competitive power walking has paid off in spades. I watch as she removes the dishtowel and plates a gooey cinnamon roll dripping with icing. These babies are fresh.

“Maggie’s run into a small dilemma, you see. Told her scheduling this event during a full moon was risky. Could go either way, you see.” She retrieves a fork from a drawer, carries the plated cinnamon roll to the kitchen table, and urges me to sit down.

I don’t knowwhatis happening, only that something is. Grandma Olive knows I can’t resist her homemade cinnamon rolls. As she hands me the fork, I’m doomed. I’m afraid to ask, but my growling stomach demands I man the fuck up and spit out the dreaded question. “What kind of dilemma?”

“There’s a journalist in town.”

The first bite is pure fucking heaven. Almost worth the blue balls I’ll no doubt have for the rest of the day.

“Apparently, she’s from some important magazine. She’s writing an article about Maggie’s event. Isn’t that wonderful?” Grandma Olive waits until my mouth is stuffed full to add. “She wants to interview all the couples, you see. And well, bachelor number seven never showed—”

“No.” My objection comes out severely muffled by pastry.Thatwas Grandma Olive’s ulterior motive. Can’t turn down the request if I can’t fucking speak the words. I shake my head adamantly, but Grandma Olive has turned her back to me to focus on wrapping the remaining rolls with plastic wrap.

“Maggie needs you to shower and be on your best behavior.” She glances back, lips pursed as she sizes me up. “Maybe trim that beard?”

My pulse triples at the thought of seeing Charlotte again. Of spending the day with her after so very nearly giving in to temptation last night. How thefuckdo I keep myself from devouring those pillowy lips the second we have a moment alone? After that Dear John letter, I swore that was it. Any casual hookups I’ve had since then have happened in Anchorage to ensure minimal entanglements. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling a small thrill that her real match was a no-show.

“Ican’t.” The words come out strangled and small.

“Of course you can.” Grandma Olive pats my shoulder as if she’s asking me to pick up a gallon of milk at the store rather than be in Charlotte’s orbit for an entire day. Selfishly, I’m almost glad for another chance to spend time with the curvy beauty. But I know we’re both going to be more fucked for it when the day is over. “Oh, Maggie said to bring your snowshoes.”

5

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