The Mistletoe Motive(10)
As I listened from the heroine’s perspective, my imagination refused to conjure anyone but him—this grumpy, no-smiles jerk of a hero who smelled like wintry-forests Jonathan and sounded like gruff, surly Jonathan and looked like broad, muscly Jonathan.
Even worse, while still listening to my romance audiobook, I finally fell asleep. That’s when my dreams took over.
Caught in a weird limbo of a Regency England romance novel filtering through my headphones and the wicked work of my subconscious, I was a feisty bluestocking hiding from the crushed ballroom in her family’s library with a penny dreadful. Jonathan was the serious, broody, duke whose radically favorable views on industrialization scandalized the other gentry, even though their agricultural wealth was fast dying, so he came slinking into that same library I was hiding in to escape his intransigent aristocratic peers and find himself a bracing pour of my father’s finest single-malt whiskey.
But instead he found me. And asked what I was reading. Which, hello, with me, that’s how you hop in the fast lane on the expressway to friendship: talk to me about books. One thing led to another. Banter was bantered. Bluestocking Gabby was playful rather than pissy. Ducal Jonathan was curious as opposed to cantankerous. Instead of our dynamic’s real life hostility, we were combustible.
Off came cravat and corset, petticoats and placket, and then it was his big, strong body heavy over mine, his stern mouth whispering filthy things in my ear as he made me writhe and gasp beneath him. It was so vivid, a fire roaring, soft abandoned clothes beneath my back, as he filled me, touched me, coaxing me expertly to pleasure, like he’d mapped every inch of me and knew exactly how to drive me wild—
A horn blares, wrenching me from my thoughts. I’ve walked into the middle of oncoming traffic, which has a green light.
“Watch where you’re going!” a cab driver yells.
Thankfully their voice and interspersed honking is muffled by my noise-cancelling headphone earmuffs. Loud sounds like that hurt my brain. I lift my hand in apology and hurry across the street. “Sorry!”
Speeding up, I hustle along the sidewalk. I’m running late again because I woke up so flustered from my dream, so turned on I could barely put my clothes on right. Then I walked out the door without my bag before I realized I hadn’t put on my boots. I’m a mess.
And I’m having a crisis. Because this isn’t how attraction works for me—I desire people I feel close to, connected with. Who I like. I don’t like Jonathan.
But is liking really what you need? the devil on my shoulder whispers. Or is it closeness? A bond? You are bonded with him, aren’t you?
More like trapped, the angel on my other side reminds me. Tangled. Ensnared. These are not good things.
The angel’s right, but the devil’s not wrong either. Jonathan and I are bonded. Yes, it’s a twisty bond, united in our love of the bookstore but divided by how to manage it, opposite personalities who can’t stand each other yet in many ways know each other inside out, but that doesn’t make it any less of a bond. And, God, the sheer absurd amount of time we’ve spent together, just the two of us in the bookshop, bickering and provoking each other. How many hours did Jonathan say it was? Over two thousand?
That’s a lot. Too much. It’s clearly getting to me, tricking my body into fantasizing about the last thing I should want from someone who I cannot stand.
There’s a reason you’re fantasizing about him, the devil whispers. Don’t you want to figure that out?
The angel tsks primly, shaking her head. She used to fantasize about Mr. Reddit. That’s who she’s supposed to fantasize about—
“Argh!” I throw up my hands and stomp down the sidewalk. I don’t have time for these angel-devil debates. I don’t even have time to get myself a peppermint hot cocoa. Which means my routine is off, I’m hungry and sugar-deprived, and I’m sorely lacking in seasonal beverage goodness.
Just as my mood is really heading south, my headphones start to play a jazzy version of “Sleigh Ride” sung by Ella Fitzgerald (of course), and I can’t help but smile just a little, the sudden happiness the music brings reminding me how I started this walk to work: committed to staying positive. So I pep-talk myself as I wrap up my walk to the store. Today is going to be better! Work is going to be great! The bookshop is decorated beautifully for the holidays; I have a whole month of fun, festive activities to draw crowds, sell books, and spread cheer. And no traumatically sexual dream about Jonathan Frost in skin-tight breeches is going to bring me down.
Opening the door to the bookshop, which is unlocked like it always is because Jonathan’s always there first, I feel a surge of joy as I drink in the space.
Polished, glowing wood floors and columns, built-in bookshelves, every gorgeous beam curved along the vaulted ceilings. Row after colorful row of book spines filling shelves and stacked on wood tables, a treasure chest of bookish gems. The gas fireplace dances with cheery flames beneath the mantel, which I decorated with oversized jewel-tone ornaments, glittering fake snow, and soft pine boughs. All across the ceiling hang my homemade sparkling papier maché and clay baked decorations that honor the winter holidays, swirls of white, gold, and silver ribbon threaded among them and reflecting the morning light like sunrise mirrored on a frozen pond.
The sight before me, the comforting smell of books mingling with fresh-cut evergreens, wraps me in a blanket of festive bliss.