The Mistletoe Motive(22)

But I do see his eyes. Because they drift right up the stands and land on me.

Wintergreen. Arctic cold.

I gasp.

“What?” Eli says, turning toward me. “What is it?”

Holy shit. Number 12 is Jonathan Frost.





Chapter 7


Playlist: “Santa Baby,” Haley Reinhart


“I have to go.” I shoot up from my seat.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I drove you.” Eli clasps my hand and tugs me back down. I land with a flop. “What’s going on?”

“Th-th-that’s—” I gesticulate wildly toward the ice, where Jonathan’s still staring up at me, a familiar frustrated notch in his brow that I can feel even from this distance. “That’s Jonathan.”

“Jonathan who—ohhhhh.” Eli glances back toward the ice and squints. “Wow, it is him! I knew he looked familiar. That must be why. Maybe he’s a friend of Lukey’s.” Eli waves.

I slap his hand down. “Do not wave at him. He’s the enemy. Nemesis. Antagonist. Provocateur.”

“Okay, Thesaurus.com, relax. You’re not at work. Think you can set that aside right now? He’s on Luke’s team, and we want Luke to win!”

I gape at Eli as he wedges his hot tea between his thighs, then sets two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly. “Woohoo!”

“This is the worst,” I mutter into my hot chocolate.

“Might as well make the best of it,” he says. “Because you definitely owe me this whole game.”

“Elllliiiii,” I whine.

He glances over at me sharply. “Two hours, Gabriella. I signed books and read stories and held kids with sticky, sugar-cookie fingers on my lap like freaking Santa Claus for two hours today.”

And Jonathan never showed his face, never helped. He stayed holed up in the bookkeeping room, doing whatever covert shit he does on his laptop, and left me to the whim of my own devices, damn him. Thankfully, the parents were on their best behavior.

“Fair point,” I tell Eli. “But if I have to see Jonathan when this game is over, don’t ask me to be nice.”

Eli rolls his eyes, turning back to the game. “And you call him Scrooge.”





Begrudgingly, I have to admit the game is fun to watch, just like Dad promised. At least, it’s fun, until Jonathan turns into the MVP.

After his first goal, the opposition ties it up right before the first period ends. In the second period, Eli’s boyfriend, Luke, who’s a defensemen, has an incredible breakaway with Jonathan and an assist for Jonathan’s second goal. Then in the third period, the other team ties it up, but with two minutes to spare, Jonathan scores once more, which not only wins the game but makes for a hat trick.

He’s going to be insufferable at work tomorrow.

I try hard not to pout like a five-year-old as we wait for Luke after the game, but I’m struggling. Eli drove us, so I’m stuck until he’s ready to go—a plan I was fine with before I knew I’d be bumping into Jonathan Frost.

I really don’t know if I can take seeing him like this, after kicking ass at my favorite sport, sweaty and showered and glowing with pride, high on adrenaline and arrogant as hell.

In fact, I know I can’t.

The first of the players exits their locker room, and my heart springboards from my chest to my throat. Spinning, I start for the lobby doors. “I’m going to wait in the car.”

“You’ll need my keys,” Eli says, a little too pleased with himself. “Seeing as it’s locked.”

I freeze, pivot, then freeze again. Shit. I’m too late.

Because strolling out of the locker room, shoulder to shoulder with Luke, is Jonathan. His dark hair’s wet and wavier than normal, a thick lock out of its normal tidy order brushing his forehead. He glances up and air whooshes out of my lungs. His cheeks are pink from exertion, and there’s a fiery glint in his pale green eyes.

My legs wobble a little.

Eli grabs my elbow. “You okay?”

“Uh.”

“A certain someone isn’t making you weak at the knees, is he?” Eli says out of the side of his mouth. I elbow him so hard, he wheezes, “You need anger management classes.”

“I know. It’s his fault.” So many things are Jonathan’s fault. The relentless heartburn I’ve developed in the past year, the ache in my knuckles from my hands forming fists all day, the deplorable dream that’s sabotaged my sleep. And now, he’s responsible for every drop of liquid heat flooding my veins, pooling low and aching-sweet between my legs.

It’s as if my libido—sometimes extinguished, other times a faint, quiet flame coaxed to life in the air of connection—is now a consuming wildfire, devouring every moment we’re together, burning hotter and brighter. I can’t stand it.

Clearing my throat, I try to look dignified as I meet his eyes. “Jonathan.”

“Gabriella.” His mouth tips up at the corner, a satisfied near-grin that makes my stomach flip-flop. “An unexpected surprise. This is a little much, though, don’t you think—following me to my game? If you wanted to see me outside of work, a simple text would have sufficed.”

“Ha-ha.” I set a hand on my stomach and tell it to stop doing backflips as I jerk my head toward Eli giving Luke a congratulatory kiss. “I was brought here against my will.”