Page 109 of The Single Dad Project

She slipped her hands into her gloves and settled earmuffs over her head. The sight of them never failed to drag a spurt of humor out of her. The overtly feminine headwear with its purple band and puffs of white fur so contrasted her no-nonsense personality. He loved the contrast.

Shit, he just loved her.

He smothered a sigh and tried to let the air that practically crackled with anticipation and the festivity of the season replace the tiny kernel of resentment that burrowed under his ribs.

Not resentment of her. He couldn’t blame her for not loving him, for not even seeing him as anything but her friend and employee. Just as he couldn’t help loving her, being bitter at her would be hypocritical.

No, all his resentment was self-directed. Because if his father had taught him anything it was the futility of wanting someone who didn’t want you back. Patrick had believed he’d learned that lesson as an unwilling pupil. But apparently, he’d failed. And epically.

“No,” he replied to her statement. “Not too—whoa.” He just managed to brace himself as Brooklyn’s body collided with his own. On pure reflex and instinct, his arms rose and wrapped around her even as she gripped the back of his coat and held him close. “Sweetheart, what’s this? What’s wrong?”

He lowered his head, her thick, dark brown curls tickling his chin and mouth. His eyes closed, but a second later he opened them, staring at the Christmas tree in the window of Dyson Realtors. Hehadto focus on that six-foot tree decorated with ornaments shaped like houses and keys. Otherwise, he might concentrate too closely on the feel of Brooklyn’s petite frame pressed to his taller one. Give too much attention to her abundant, sexy-as-fuck curves and how her soft lushness cushioned his bigger, harder body.

Jesus.

He wasn’t a saint.Don’t even fucking think about it, he snarled to his unruly dick. He struggled to control his body’s response. Fought not to let it betray the lust swarming through his blood like a thousand enraged bees let loose from their hive. But the longer those small, firm breasts, softly rounded stomach and thick, gorgeous thighs pressed against him, the more difficult it became to hide just how beautiful and hot he found her.

A Christmas miracle. Where was a damn Christmas miracle when he needed one?

“Sweetheart,” he said again, voice rough with need. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” came her muffled answer.

“For what?”

She tipped her head back away from his chest. “For being a thoughtless asshole back there.” Her eyes appeared rounder, softer, behind her glasses as she studied his face. “This time of year must be hard for you,” she whispered. “And I didn’t mean to hurt you with my careless words.”

Realization that she was referring to her comment about family dawned on him, and he vacillated between removing her arms and stepping back, as if emotional distance would emulate physical distance, and drawing her impossibly closer, stamping her skin, her scent, her fuckingbeing, on him.

Instead, he landed somewhere in the middle.

He didn’t release her; he wasn’t that honorable. But he did shift backward just a little, placing air between their bodies. It did nothing to calm the hungry roar inside him demanding he claim that carnal mouth, mark that elegant neck. Grind his aching cock against her belly.

Inhaling a deep breath, he stroked a hand up her spine under the guise of comforting her when he was taking shameless advantage of just being able to touch her without revealing his secret.

Cupping the nape of her neck, he said, “It’s fine, Brooklyn. You didn’t—”

She shook her head, a small frown creasing her forehead. “No,” she interrupted. “Don’t tell me I didn’t hurt you. I’ve known you too long and too well. You were hurt. I hurt you.”

She didn’t know himthatwell. If Brooklyn did, she wouldn’t be standing here, arms around him. No, she would be lecturing him on why they wouldn’t work. All while slowly backing away from him as if he’d sprouted horns and cloven feet.

“Stop.”

He squeezed the back of her neck. Her lips snapped shut, trapping whatever point she’d probably been about to make next. She slightly stiffened against him—the action so small that if he hadn’t been fine tuned into her exact frequency, he would’ve missed it. Her eyes dipped to his mouth, and just as his gut clenched hard, she lifted her gaze to his.

Was it his imagination or... No. Couldn’t be.

Even as his mind told him he was reading too much into her reaction, he once more flexed his fingers around her neck.

Fuck. Him.

Desire. Surprise and desire glinted in her dark gaze. Her lashes lowered, almost immediately concealing her eyes, but no, he hadn’t imagined it. Hehadn’t. Lust whipped through him like the winds of a destructive storm, threatening to tear him to shreds.

“Brooklyn...”

“It’s a good thing we’re not staying married,” she said, stepping back and stuffing her hands into the pockets of her red bubble coat. “I’d have to smother you in your sleep if you tried to order me around.”

He smirked, concealing the confusion and arousal eddying inside him.

---