The Mistletoe Motive(29)

I loathe myself for falling prey to his nice-guy act in the car.

I loathe myself for kissing him as much as he kissed me, for letting him hold me to his body, fierce and hot and hard, when he’s not supposed to be the one I want.

I loathe that as I watch snow falling outside my window, all I see is snowflakes crowning his dark hair, and when I lick my lips, all I taste is that first intoxicating brush of his mouth and mine.

Flopping onto the bed, red dress pressed and waiting like a suit of armor, poised for battle tomorrow, I wrap Gingerbread in my arms and bury my face in her velvet-soft fur. She meows, peering up at me inquisitively.

“What’s my plan, you ask?” I kiss her perfect pink nose. “I’m going to work tomorrow, and I’m bringing Jonathan Frost to his knees.”





I caved last night and listened to my romance audiobook because I was desperately under-slept and I needed to be rested for my plan of attack. Unfortunately that led to another erotic aristocrats-in-the-library dream that put its predecessor to shame.

I cannot think about it.

Not without blushing head to toe and remembering every place Fantasy Jonathan’s hands and mouth were last night.

Which is why, as I power down the sidewalk toward the bookshop, I’m doing everything I can to distract myself. Mentally checking off my to-do list for the rest of the week, I have holiday tunes blasting in my headphones, and I’m relying entirely on my vision to ensure I’m not taken out by a car like a spare bowling pin. This means my headphones block out not only traffic noise but also the sound of approaching footsteps, leaving me fully unprepared when a hand wraps around my elbow.

I let out an instinctive shriek and drop my peppermint hot cocoa to the pavement as self-defense kicks in. I’m about to grab their wrist and, like Mom taught me, tug forward, then twist, but they let go of my arm before I can.

Just as I’m spinning around to throw the heel of my hand into their nose, the familiar scent of overpowering cologne wafts through the air and jogs my memory. “Trey!”

Blond hair, short on the sides, longer on top. Wide sky-blue eyes. He looks like a Ken doll who’s been surprised.

Panting, I rip off my headphones and face him. “What the hell, Trey? You scared me!”

He opens his mouth to answer me, but it’s not his voice I hear. It’s Jonathan’s.

“Gabby!” Holy shit. It’s his Siri-get-on-your-knees voice. Commanding and deep and thunderously loud.

I’m speechless as I glance past Trey’s shoulder, watching Jonathan sprint closer and closer.

Trey seems to sense he has very little time. “Gabby, listen to me,” he says. “Bailey’s days are numbered. Come work with me. Bring that small-store charm to Potter’s. Independent bookstores are dying, almost extinct. All that’s left is to bring what you love about them to the chain store experience.”

I recoil from that. “That’s not what I want. I want to save Bailey’s.”

“You can’t,” he argues, stepping toward me. “Don’t be na?ve. Your idealism isn’t going to save—”

Thankfully, Trey doesn’t get to finish that dismissive thought. It’s cut off abruptly as Jonathan restrains him in one smooth motion, pinning him against the nearby building.

He could have body checked and brutalized him, but Jonathan’s controlled, leaving Trey undamaged, only stunned, his breath rasping faintly beneath Jonathan’s forearm. “Are you hurt?” Jonathan asks me, scanning me for signs of harm.

“I’m okay. He caught me by surprise and startled me, but he didn’t hurt me. You can let him go.”

Immediately, Jonathan lowers his arm and comes my way, ignoring Trey, who makes a big show of coughing and rubbing his throat.

Besides the fire in his eyes, the tight set of his mouth, Jonathan looks completely calm. He’s not even winded. “You’re sure he didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m sure,” I whisper, something thrilling and terrifying happening inside my heart. My ribcage is a club when the ball drops at midnight—glittering, glowing, effervescent.

“I wasn’t trying to scare you, Gabs,” Trey says, breaking the moment.

Gabs. God, I hate that nickname. Peeling my gaze from Jonathan, I glance his way. “And yet you grabbed my arm from behind?”

“I called your name a dozen times,” he says patronizingly, as if this is somehow an oversight on my part. “You didn’t hear me.”

“Of course I didn’t hear you!” I point to my headphones. “And I still don’t want to.”

“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” Trey says, giving me those pathetic pleading blue eyes he tried when I broke up with him. “I’ve tried calling and texting you from a handful of numbers, none of which went through after my first message. I wrote you notes. I sent you a bouquet. I said I was sorry and I missed you. I heard nothing.”

“That’s because I blocked every number you used and because when I said we were over, Trey, I meant it! I’m done. And now I’m going to work. For the last time, leave me alone.”

“Gabs,” he begs, stepping into my space, “hear me out—”

“No, Trey.”

“Please.” He steps closer, reaching for me. “Just—”