The Mistletoe Motive(24)

We’re hurtling past Luke and Eli.

“Uh, bye?” I glance over my shoulder and see the two of them, all smiles, looking annoyingly pleased. “They’re such menaces,” I mutter.

“Tell me about it.” Reaching past me and opening the lobby door for us, Jonathan points his fob at a sturdy, unpretentious black SUV that beeps twice obediently as he unlocks it.

When I get closer, I realize it’s not one of those low crossover cars masquerading as an SUV. It’s a proper truck chassis, high up and formidable. “Yeesh, it’s big.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I realize how that sounds. I glance at Jonathan. “I swear I did not mean for that to come out like innuendo.”

“Never even considered it.” Except Jonathan’s almost smiling again, eyes down on the ground as he clears his throat.

Then he opens my door and offers me a hand. I stare at it in confusion. He doesn’t like that.

“Christ, Gabby. I didn’t spit on my palm. It’s just a hand up.”

I’ve never heard him say my name, not the name everyone else uses. I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that my skin’s humming and my cheeks are warm, and the sound of my name on his lips echoes in the snowy silence. Gabby.

Our eyes hold.

My fingertips inch closer to his outstretched hand.

I don’t know why I’m doing it. I don’t know how to stop.

“Why?” I ask softly.

Snow drifts from the sky, dusting Jonathan’s dark hair and his midnight-black windbreaker. His throat works in a swallow, then he says, “Because I want to.”

It’s hardly an answer, but apparently it’s answer enough for me. Because somehow I find my fingertips brushing his, sliding over calluses and rough skin, until our palms connect.

Air seeps from my lungs. His grip is warm and solid as he leverages me up, and just when I’m telling myself that no, this isn’t some Darcy-hoists-Elizabeth-into-her-carriage-and-the-world-tips-on-its-axis moment, his thumb brushes the back of my hand. Apparently there’s a nerve expressway between that spot and every erogenous zone in my body, because I drop like a rag doll onto my seat, a drumbeat of longing thudding through my limbs.

If Jonathan feels anything close to what I just did, he doesn’t show it. His face is unreadable, his features smooth as he shuts my door.

What was that about not melting into a horny puddle? The little devil on my shoulder cackles as she traces a flame in the air with her pitchfork. You are so lusting over him.

The angel on my other side gives the devil a prim, reproachful look. She’s supposed to be lusting after Mr. Reddit.

Seething, I stare ahead at the swirling snow outside the car. I hate that both angel and devil are right. I hate that I want to be keyed up for Mr. Reddit and instead it’s Jonathan Frost who’s turned me into a hot, lusty mess while he’s as cool and calm as ever.

But as I watch him round the car, his long, broad body wrapped in a swirl of fast-falling snow, his hand flexes, then balls into a brutal fist.

Maybe someone’s not so unaffected, after all.

Smug with satisfaction, I wet my thumb and index finger, then pinch out the flame blazing in the air, because if he’s lusting as bad as I am, that makes it…neutral. Or something.

The tiny devil on my shoulder scowls. The angel beams in approval.

Jonathan wrenches open his door, then slides in. Frowning, he opens his phone, then taps an app icon I can’t see. So I crane my neck a little. “Stop snooping, Gabriella.”

I glance away, red-cheeked and embarrassed. “You were practically flashing it my way.”

“I was not.”

“Was too.”

“Were too,” he corrects.

“Argh!” I throw up my hands, then reach for the door handle. “I’m walking home.”

The car doors’ locks click. Slowly, I turn and face him. “This is how I die, isn’t it?”

Jonathan scrubs his face before his hands drop to his lap. He turns his head and stares at me. “Gabriella.”

“Jonathan.”

“Please don’t threaten to walk home in the snow. Or joke about me killing you.” He reaches in the center console and flips open a tiny door, revealing a small stash of…candy?

“Who are you?” I ask as I watch him efficiently unwrap two mini peanut butter cups, then pop them in his mouth.

“Jonathan Frost, co-manager that you love to hate. I thought we covered this.” Chewing briskly, he pushes the button to start his car.

“You have candy in your vehicle.” A shiver wracks me. My teeth start to chatter. “You eat s-sugar? And enjoy it?”

“I’m a man of many mysteries, Gabriella. Help yourself.”

I peer toward the console. There’s… “M-mint chocolate M&Ms?” My teeth clack so hard, I barely get the words out.

“All yours.” He turns on my seat warmer, then cranks up the heat and points all the vents my way.

My belly does a disconcerting swoop. He noticed that I’m cold. He’s making sure I’m warm. “You don’t like them?”

“Not a bit,” he says. “Mint chocolate is foul.”

“Then why do you have mint chocolate M&Ms?”

Jonathan drops back in his seat again and rakes a hand through his hair, tugging hard, jaw working until he finally says, “Because I saw them at the grocery store after work today and thought of you and bought them. Because I was an ass this morning, and I regret that, and I bought apology candy, and then I realized how ridiculous that was, when I’m starting to think there aren’t enough M&Ms in the world to make things better between us.”