“Were too.” I'm smirking now. Some full-on smirking too, because the way she's looking at me is doing dangerous things to my self-control. The gingerbread man on my chest jingles softly with another step closer. “In fact, I'd say you were eye-fucking me pretty thoroughly just now.”
“Cole—” Her voice comes out breathier than intended, and she bites her bottom lip. Instantly, I remember exactly how she sounded last night when she moaned my name.
I lift the hem of the jumper slightly, revealing that strip of stomach again. “Want me to lift it higher? Really put on a show for you?”
Her eyes drop, and the flush on her cheeks deepens beautifully.
“You know,” she exclaims, trying to recover, “this isn't very book boyfriend behaviour—teasing me like this. Penelope Costa's men would never!”
“Sweetheart.” My voice drops lower as I take another step closer, close enough that her vanilla and cinnamon scent intoxicates my senses. “Book boyfriends are fictional for a reason. Real life is much more interesting.”
But even as I say it, I'm thinking about that note. About how I meant every word when I wrote it, how I genuinely believed I wasn't capable of being what she deserves.
And yet here I am, wearing a ridiculous jumper with bells on it, cancelling meetings, spending my afternoon in Christmas markets—doing all the things book boyfriends do without even trying.
She opens her mouth, then closes it, then tries again. “That's— You can't just—”
“Can't just what?” I'm enjoying this entirely too much, watching her flounder. “Tell the truth?”
Despite how flustered I've made her, she holds my stare for a long beat, and I realise those big blue eyes may just be the death of me.
“The jumper looks good on you,” she finally manages, clearly trying to regain some composure. “Very...Christmas-y.
“Christmas-y,” I repeat, dropping my voice lower. “Is that thetechnicalterm?”
“It's—” She has to clear her throat. “It's working better than it should.”
“The jumper or me?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning. I'm not entirely joking, and she knows it.
“Both,” she whispers.
Something hot and electric shoots through my chest—surprise, pleasure, want—and I raise my hand slowly, watching her eyes widen as my fingers brush against her jaw. Her skin is soft, warm, and I cup her face gently, my thumb tracing along her cheekbone.
Her breath stutters, and I hold her gaze, letting my touch say what I can't quite put into words yet. That she's undoing me. That she's making me want to be better, braver. That maybe that note I left this morning was the biggest mistake I've made in a long time.
That maybe I'm not as incapable of this as I thought.
Her lips part slightly, and I watch her pupils dilate as my thumb grazes the corner of her mouth. The same mouth I've been wanting to kiss again all damn day.
“Cole...” she breathes, and there's a question in it. A hope that terrifies me and thrills me in equal measure.
I lean in slightly, close enough that I can feel her breath against my lips, close enough that I could close this distance if I just—
“Finding everything all right, loves?” the shop owner calls out from the front.
The spell breaks. I step back, my hand falling away from her face, though my fingers are still tingling from the contact. We both take a shaky breath, the moment suspended between us like a promise.
“We'll take them,” I call back, my eyes never leaving Rory's flushed face.
“What happened to it being obscene?” she asks.
“Itisobscene.” I glance down at the gingerbread man, then back up at her. “But you like it. And I'm finding I quite enjoy giving you things you like.”
Her eyes widen slightly, and I realise I genuinely mean what I've just admitted.
“That's... That's not fair,” she says softly.
