The Mistletoe Motive(12)

Not that I’ve imagined that in any great detail—what that body of his looks like in morning sunlight, winter-white bedsheets pooled low around his hips. That shape of his severe mouth softened in a sleepy smile. His bare chest expanding when he stretches pleasurably and groans awake.

Nope. Never thought about that. Definitely not thinking about it now that I know what a conniving, sabotaging son of a—

“Gabriella.”

My eyes snap open and meet his, a fresh wave of lust cresting inside me. This is so unfair. Here I am, about to have A Very Serious Business Meeting with my bosses and professional nemesis who I had a white-hot, unresolved (if you know what I’m saying) dream about. I’m unprepared and flustered and horny, and here’s Jonathan with hot beverages for everyone, cool as a fucking cucumber.

I should be repulsed, but instead my breasts are tender and there’s a deep warm ache between my legs. He should look like a lump of grumpy coal, with that stern expression, his ink-black sweater, and charcoal trousers, but instead Jonathan Frost looks like sex and smoke and a starless night sky.

I hate him for it.

“What do you want?” I hiss.

He tips his head, scanning my face. “I asked if you’re all right.”

Like he cares. It’s all part of his act in front of the Baileys.

I tip my chin and throw back my shoulders. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

His eyes search mine. I stare right back.

“Ready to start?” Mrs. Bailey calls.

Jonathan blinks, then turns her way. “Absolutely.”

“Yep!” It comes out thin and pinched. I clear my throat, pressing a cool hand to my cheek as I follow Jonathan to the table.

Just before I can reach for the chair in front of me, Jonathan’s hand closes around it and drags it out. Clearly another part of his gentlemanly act for the Baileys. I glare and beam him a telepathic warning: I see right through you.

Jonathan arches an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth tips in wry amusement as he beams back a nonchalant Sure you do.

On a huff, I sit. He slides my chair forward. And then he rounds the table, lowering himself to the seat across from me.

Mrs. Bailey slides a cup my way. “This should put a smile on your lovely face, my dear.”

“Ah, great. Thanks.” I pop off the lid, then breathe in. I’m deeply sensitive to smell, and I know exactly what my perfect peppermint hot cocoa smells like—double shots of peppermint, two-percent milk, extra whip, and chocolate drizzle.

This is it.

How does Jonathan know exactly how I drink it? And why don’t I smell rat poison? Does cyanide have an odor?

For a moment, everything’s quiet. Mr. Bailey sips an uncomplicated latte. Mrs. Bailey sips hers, too, though her cup reeks of cinnamon and nutmeg. They both look at me expectantly.

Right. I’ve been given something. Politeness is called for. Worse, gratitude.

If it’s not the poison in my drink, it’s what I’m about to do that’s going to kill me, but I swallow my pride, bare a grimacing smile, and say between clenched teeth, “Thank you, Jonathan, for my peppermint hot cocoa.”

He lifts the lid on his black coffee, then meets my gaze, arching an eyebrow as he takes a long, slow drink. His tongue darts out as he licks a fleck of coffee from his bottom lip. My thighs pin together beneath the table.

“You’re welcome, Gabriella.”

An electric zing arcs through the air, as if the universe was about as prepared for a civil exchange between us as it is for nuclear fusion. Jonathan’s mouth tips, the faintest lift at the corner, like he’s read my mind and found this moment just as ironically amusing.

“So.” Mrs. Bailey wraps her hands around her cup. “Thank you for gathering. What do you want first—the good news or the bad?”

“Bad,” Jonathan tells her, as I say, “Good.”

Mr. Bailey scrubs his face and sighs.

“Fine,” I mutter, before taking a long swig of perfect peppermint hot cocoa to console myself. I’m too desperate for sugar to worry if it’s about to kill me. “Just lower the boom.”

“Take it away, dear,” Mrs. Bailey tells her husband.

Mr. Bailey gives her a disgruntled look, then says, “As we expected, the arrival of a Potter’s Pages to the neighborhood two years ago has undeniably led to decreased profits. Their competitive pricing and massive inventory was bad enough, but their online store, particularly e-books…it’s become impossible to compete with.”

Jonathan’s gaze snaps between the Baileys with a kind of laser-focused intensity that I have no idea what to make of. What am I missing?

Silence stretches between the four of us, and I take the moment to examine Jonathan for some clue as to what’s going on. Hands folded on the table like a boardroom executive, back straight, ink-black cashmere sweater clinging to his broad shoulders and chest like it was poured over him, he looks straight out of those 500-page fantasy romances that I devour, like the villain who turns out to be the hero. Except this is reality—here, the villain’s the villain.

“Historically,” Jonathan says, breaking the silence, “Bailey’s hasn’t tried to compete with a chain bookstore strategy. We’ve focused on providing a curated, boutique in-person experience because we have a different target demographic and customer base than Potter’s Pages. Are you saying…” he glances my way, then back to them, “that you’d consider altering that approach?”