The Mistletoe Motive(16)

I glance over my shoulder. The way Jonathan’s staring at me is…terrifying.

I’m the gazelle, and he’s the lion. He’s unnaturally still, unblinking. And it’s freakishly reminiscent of Fantasy Aristocrat Jonathan who walked in, rocking the hell out of breeches and Hessian boots, then shut the library door behind him with an irrevocable, world-changing click.

Is nothing safe from him? Must he shoulder and trample his way into every corner of my life? I stand, frozen, unnervingly arrested by the intensity of his gaze, the way he’s looking at me like he’s seen me right down the marrow of my bones.

I feel naked.

“Are you done messing with me now?” I whisper.

As if my words have broken a spell, he blinks, and then, like a big cat stalking through the grass, he closes the distance between us. “That’s what you think I’m doing. Messing with you,” he says quietly, eyes searching mine, a new, furious fire in his gaze. “Could you think any less of me?”

My chin lifts. Every moment he’s snapped and condescended, arrogantly corrected me and put me in my place, flashes through my memory. “Why the hell would I think any better?”

Jonathan wraps his hand around mine as I hold the romance novel, staring me down. “You’re not entirely wrong,” he admits. “I can be cold and calculating, sometimes sharp and abrupt. But this is the truth, whether you believe me or not: I care about the Baileys, this bookshop…everything it’s given me.”

Jonathan plucks the book from my hand, turns, and stalks away. “Even if,” I hear him mutter to himself, “it’s going to make me lose my goddamn mind.”





Chapter 5


Playlist: “Happy Holidaze,” Dana Williams


Today did not, in fact, turn out to be better. I’m not holding out much hope for tonight, either. After a tense eight hours spent working alongside Jonathan, busting my ass to sell as many books as possible, I come home to an empty apartment. Eli has evening appointments, and June’s on night shift at the hospital.

I toast a piece of sourdough, slather it in butter, and inhale every bite along with the bowl of tomato soup that I’ve heated up, acid reflux be damned.

After that, it’s my shower, T-shirt hair wrap, and pajamas routine. Gingerbread happily settled on my lap, I check my computer. My heart does a giddy snow angel when I see there’s a message from Mr. Reddit: Hey, MCAT. Sorry I was MIA last night. I had a rough day at work and decided to cool off with some exercise. It ran later than I’d planned, then I came home and crashed.

I make a sympathetic noise and type, I’m sorry work was rough. But no worries about not messaging—work was shitty for me, too, so I came home, zoned out with a Christmas movie, then went to bed.

Where you had an elaborate sex dream about an aristocratic Jonathan Frost, the devil on my shoulder whispers. A very long, lurid sex dream.

The angel on my other side tuts disapprovingly.

Sorry to hear that, he types. Does work get more stressful around the holidays? If I remember correctly, it’s a busy time of year for you.

My belly swoops. He remembered. It is. I love this time of year, so it’s fun but also exhausting. Once it’s December, I come home at night and pretty much collapse until we close for the holidays.

And after we close for the holidays this year, I’ll have outsold Jonathan Frost and claimed the bookstore for myself again. Glorious victory will be mine!

I let out a villainous cackle and do a spin on my bouncy chair that sends Gingerbread leaping off on a disgruntled meow. When I hear the speakers chime with a new message, I stop my rotations and face the screen.

Don’t go too hard, all right? I want you around for the long run. Can’t talk shit on Willoughby all by myself.

My heart swan dives off a snow bank and lands in a pillow of powdery glee. I smile so hard, my cheeks hurt. And then I impulsively type something so fucking horrifying, I screech as soon as I hit send: Maybe some time we could meet up and talk shit on Willoughby in person.

“No. NO!” I’m about to click delete to unsend the message, but the read receipt pops up. Oh God. He’s seen it. I screech again and slide off my chair to the floor, flailing as I yell, “Why? WHY did I just do that?”

It’s this hellacious day’s fault. First the naughty dream, then Jonathan bringing me hot cocoa that weirdly wasn’t poisoned, the dire bookshop business news, our intense showdown after the Baileys left. My wires are crossed. I’ve finally cracked.

The speaker chimes again with a new message. Scrambling up from the floor, I read what he wrote: You really want to meet in person? You’re not just saying that out of some sad obligation to the guy who’s messaged you every night since you met online?

Damn good question, Mr. Reddit. Do I want to meet him? Yes. But I’m also terrified to meet him. Because then he’ll know all of me. And he could decide that’s not enough or that it’s way too much.

But I’ll never know if I don’t take the risk, will I? What are we going to do, Telegram chat for the next sixty years and never leave the friend zone?

Straightening on my bouncy ball chair, I yank myself closer to the desk and take a deep breath for courage. My hands are shaking as I type. I want to meet you. And I don’t feel obligated. Do you?

It says he’s typing. I bite my lip so hard, it bleeds.