Page 16 of Santa Baby

“You don’t have my number.”

“I have your email,” he said.

“Oh, thank God. Now if I get hit by a taxi crossing the street to my apartment, I can send you an email to make sure you know to meet me at the hospital.”

He slipped his phone into my hand, bracing his other hand against the marble façade of the entryway, caging me in. I looked up at him through my lashes, smirked, and proceeded to pull up his contacts, typing my number and saving it.

He smiled wryly, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Goodnight, Miss Webster.”

8

MASON

Wednesday morning after the charity auction, I was waiting impatiently in the entryway of the distillery, watching box trucks being loaded for the day. The smells of the port were ripe in the air, and a stiff, cold breeze sent sprays of frost across the parking lot.

Safely inside, I leaned against the window and checked my watch. I had told Fia I would be here around nine and to meet me around then. I offered to send her a driver but she’d refused, sending me a smart-ass text back in response asking if I’d ever heard of a taxi.

Finally, a rough-looking yellow cab bumped across the parking lot, and Fia stepped out, clutching two to-go coffee cups for dear life as she fought against the wind to close the door behind her. She ended up kicking it closed, her hair lifting into the air and swirling around her head at the same moment I burst through the door to rescue her.

I pretty much shoved her inside the distillery and closed the doors behind us. She was laughing, though, her cheeks tinged a bright, angry red from the cold.

“What a beautiful day, huh?” She attempted to blow several strands of hair away from her face, but they stuck to her lips.

“Yes, lovely.” I reached up to smooth the strands away, laughing, and felt the sudden urge to just keep my hand resting on her freezing cold cheek. I pulled away, clearing my throat, and she set the coffees down on the service counter and hastily shrugged out of her coat.

“I brought you some coffee. I figured that’s all you do during the day, right? Drink copious amounts of caffeine and look at numbers until your eyes bleed?” She draped her coat over the counter, taking in the space around us. The distillery wasn’t open to the public. Sure, I had a few copper stills at the restaurant where we made the occasional small batch, but this place was my commercial headquarters.

We were standing near the service counter, where a few computers lay dormant and dark. Normally I had two or three people working here during the week handling the logistics of supply and demand for what batches we were currently brewing, but December was a dead month. Everyone was shutting down for the holidays, from our wholesalers to the farms where I bought my grain and barley.

“I do more than sit in front of a computer,” I replied, waving a hand down the snug, dimly lit hallway. “Ready?”

“This isn’t what I was envisioning,” she said as she thrust one of the coffees into my hand. Her brown eyes scanned the framed posters along the hallway, the series of labels for special batches, the awards, and the occasional picture of the crew who worked within the distillery.

“Did you think it’d look like the restaurant?” I took a sip and nearly spit the coffee back out.

Fia shot a look in my direction, smirking. “Too hot?”

“What is this?”

“An eggnog latte with extra vanilla and cinnamon syrup. You don’t like it?”

The sugar bloomed through me, making my teeth cringe. “I prefer my coffee black⁠—”

“Boring,” she said with a dramatic yawn. “It’s December, you know. It’s time to throw away any notion of health and binge on sweets.” Her eye glittered with mischief as she stood on her toes to look through a long glass window overlooking the malting room. She wore a tight, burnt orange sweater and even tighter jeans, showing off her shape, which made my mouth go dry.

I shouldn’t have been thinking about her like that. For the millionth time, I tried to remind myself that this woman was my best friend’s baby sister, not a grown woman with a body that looked like something I would really like to curl up against at night.

She turned to look at me over her shoulder, her dark, loosely curled hair falling over her back. “Although you do look like the type that takes their health very, very seriously.”

“That’s the malting room and our peat furnace.” I waved a hand toward the window and continued walking down the hallway, trying my best to not even look in her direction. “And yeah, I guess you could say that. I’m not a huge fan of sweets.”

“What are you a fan of, Mr. O’Leary?”

I glanced at her, noticing the smug grin on her lips that made her nose crinkle as she kept in step with me. “Work. Whiskey. The occasional football game.”

I opened a set of wide, metal double doors and led her inside. She ducked under my arm instead of stepping around me, her shoulder brushing my side. I clamped down on the sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins at something as minute as a touch from her.

Suppressing a groan, I shut the doors behind us with a snap. “To the left, that’s the mash tun, and to the right, those are our washbacks, for fermentation.”