Soft. Sweet. Tender.
Until it isn’t.
Our mouths part, and heat punches straight to my ribs. My tongue grazes hers, tentative at first—a question I’ve been dying to ask but never thought I could. She answers without hesitation, pulling me closer.
I grab hold of her waist to steady myself, but soon my touch turns greedy. I need to memorize the feel of her through the soft knit of her sweater. I need to absorb her heat and leave a trail of mine in return.
Her fingers fist the fabric at my chest, pulling me closer. Each brush of her lips sharpens my senses, the taste of sugar giving way to spice until I’m half-drunk on the very flavor of her.
The kiss builds like the tree—every reckless ornament, every mismatched piece stacked higher and higher until the whole thing glows. By the time the chorus swells, I’m ready to do what Nat King Cole sings—fall on my knees.
Client status, her family-life goals, me nearing myHideaway expiration—none of it matters. Only this kiss matters. Only her.
Then—my pants vibrate.
And not in the good way.
Audrey
The sudden coldwhere Jack’s mouth had been on mine feels sharper than the draft sneaking through my apartment’s single-paned windows.
I just kissed Jack Lourd. Or did he kiss me?
Does it matter?
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
“Sorry.” Looking more flustered than I’ve ever seen him—and I’ve seen him dive-bombing a Christmas tree with a naked cat in hand—Jack pulls his phone from his pocket. He frowns at the screen like he’d love nothing more than to pitch it into the harbor. “I’ll turn it off.”
“No.” My voice is louder and harsher than I intended. “Ah, I mean, you should take it.” My lips are still tingling, and my pulse hasn’t slowed since he kissed me—I need a minute. Or fifty.
His gaze flicks to mine, brow furrowing, like he can’t quite decide if I’m brushing him off or being polite. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll ignore it despite my permission.Then he exhales, swipes, and suddenly his voice is polished, professional, clipped. So very different from when we fought over where to place the two turtle doves on our tree.
“Jack Lourd.” Whoever talks back on the other end has Jack’s frown deepening. “Yes. I know who you are.” There’s more chatter on the other end, and I’m suddenly conscious of my silent apartment— the music having shut off when Jack’s phone rang. “When is the movie supposed to start filming?” He runs a hand through his hair, no longer dusted in tinsel. “And the contract?”
Dropping to my knees, I busy myself with cleaning. The shiny wrappers from his ornament spree, scraps of ribbon, cellophane from the lights—my hands gather them up, crinkling and snapping, not wanting to hear my internal thought process highlighting just how bad of an idea that kiss was. But howgoodit felt.
While Jack continues speaking fluent Hollywood, I can hear the harbor festivities happening outside a short distance away. Getting up from the floor with my pile of festive trash, I make my way toward the front window. Through the frosted panes I catch a blur of motion—scarves and hats bobbing under the lampposts, all heading to or from the harbor, where fireworks are soon to go off.
Behind me, Jack paces the length of the room, his voice sharp. “Residuals are capped against international box office—hello? Can you hear me?” He pulls the phone away, frowning, then tries again. “You’d need to—hello?” He stops mid-stride, listening to nothing, and finally lowers the phone with a muttered curse.
“Who was that?” I ask, aiming for casual.
Jack pockets his phone, his gaze never leaving mine, eyesstormy with something that makes my breath catch. “Potential client.”
Client. As in movie star. As in Hollywood. As in where he lives, all the way across the country. “Do you need to call them back?”
He shrugs, taking a step toward me. “I can call later.” His tone is easy, his eyes intense.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
I back up a step, not sure if I’m ready for whatever his expression means. “Maybe you should call them now?” I try for nonchalance. “It’s never a good idea to turn down business.”
For a moment he studies me, eyes searching, as though he suspects that my unaffected countenance is forced. That I don’t mean what I’m saying.
He’d be right, but I double down on my poor acting skills by checking my nails.
Pausing, he frowns harder before giving me a cautious nod. “I guess that’s true.” His words come slowly.
