“The point is to assault people's senses?” I deadpan as I deposit the jumper back where I found it.
“The point is to embrace the absurdity of the ugly sweater—I mean, the uglyjumpertradition.” She browses through the racks with increasing delight, running her hands over soft knits and scratchy sequins with equal enthusiasm. “You need to learn how to have fun.”
“I know how to have fun,” I protest as I follow her deeper into the shop.
Last night was fun. Last night was fucking incredible.
“Really?” Doubt etches across her petite features as she glances over her shoulder. “Name one fun thing you've done in the past month that wasn't scheduled or colour-coded.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Then narrow my eyes when I find her watching me with a pointed look. “This afternoon doesn't count?”
“This afternoon definitely counts. But that's my point—look how much fun you're having when you let yourself be spontaneous.” She holds up a truly unique specimen—a green jumper with a giant Christmas pudding wearing a crown. “This is what happens when you take risks. You end up in ridiculous jumper shops having the time of your life.”
She's not wrong. I am having fun. More fun than I've had in... Christ, I can't remember the last time I just enjoyed myself without worrying about the hundred other things I should be doing. Without the constant weight of responsibility pressing down on my shoulders.
She makes me want to be different. Better. The kind of man who doesn't leave notes instead of having difficult conversations. The kind who might actually deserve someone like her.
Holding the jumper up against her chest, she pops a pose, looking ridiculously hot despite the eyesore in her hands. “What do you think of this one?”
“I think it’s a complete and utter abomination.”
“So you love it.”
“I did not say that.”
“Ah…” She grins in delight. “Your smile says differently.”
“I am not—”
I catch myself, and sure enough, there's a smile playing on my lips. Not at the jumper—fuckno—but at the sheer silliness of this entire situation. My jaw tics as I fight and fail to suppress my amusement.
“I'm pretty sure that's just proof that your mission to corrupt me is in full effect.”
“I prefer to think of it as Operation Liberation.” She puts the pudding jumper back with a smug smile and continues browsing. “Come on, there has to be one here that speaks to you.”
“They're allscreamingat me. Does that count?”
She laughs, bright and genuine, and the shop owner—an elderly woman with candy cane earrings and a jumper featuring an entire nativity scene lit up with flashing neon lights—gives us an approving smile from behind the counter.
That's when Rory freezes, her attention caught by something in the back corner.
“This one,” she declares, pulling what might be the most ridiculous jumper I've ever seen from the rack with actual reverence. A navy-blue monstrosity with a giant gingerbread man on the front, complete with icing buttons and a bow tie made of actual ribbon.
I look at it like she's just presented me with a live grenade. “It's obscene.”
“Correction. It's festive.” She smooths her hand over the gingerbread man's face appreciatively, and I'm momentarily distracted by the memory of those same hands smoothing down my chest last night. “It's perfect.”
“It's a cry for help.”
“Come on, try it on.” She holds the offending garment out toward me, looking at me in expectation. When I continue to stand there, looking between her and the jumper as if I'm calculating the fastest escape route, she adds softly, “Please, Cole?”
Christ.
Those eyes. The same eyes that looked up at me last night with heat and want and trust I'm not sure I deserve. Eyes I could happily lose myself in…
I narrow my own eyes. “You don’t play fair. You're using those big blues as a weapon.”
She bats her dark lashes exaggeratedly. “Is it working?”
