The Mistletoe Motive(35)

“The kiss? Or, kisses, rather?”

He nods.

“I’m with you. I don’t just kiss people to kiss them. I don’t feel sexual desire for them out of the blue, either. Not until I feel emotionally connected. Which sort of stumped me at first, when I realized I was…” I clear my throat as a blush heats my cheeks. “Into you. I’m demisexual, and I’ve never wanted someone I didn’t deeply like after growing close with them.

“But then I reasoned, while I haven’t liked you very much for most of the time I’ve known you, Mr. Frost, I’ve forged a bond with you—our love for this place, our shared responsibilities, even the way I can predict what’ll irritate you as much as what’ll please your money-counting Scrooge heart. It’s a deeply fraught bond, but a bond nonetheless. There’s familiarity and ironically enough, a bizarre form of safety in our dynamic and its predictability. A sort of…intimacy. That makes you, unfortunately, fair game. But what about you?”

I swipe my finger through the whipped cream on top of my hot cocoa, slip it into my mouth, and suck it clean.

A low, painted sound leaves Jonathan, like he’s quietly dying.

“What?” I ask.

He buries his face in his hands. “You have to stop doing that.”

“I’m just enjoying my festive beverage, Mr. Frost. Come on, I want to hear your theory about the kisses.”

A long, ragged exhale leaves him. “I’ve said about all I can manage right now.”

“Why?”

Finally he lifts his head. With one soft swipe of his thumb across my lips, he sets my whole body on fire. “You have whipped cream—” He swallows roughly. “Right at the corner of your mouth. And I cannot focus on this conversation, especially one about sexual attraction, while you do.”

A fresh blush sweeps up my throat and cheeks. A heavy silence hangs between us.

Slowly I dart out my tongue, wetting my lips until I taste another fleck of sweet, heavy whipped cream. “How about now? All better?”

“No,” he says quietly, his eyes glued on my mouth. “Not at all.”

My breath hitches in my throat. “Why not?”

Jonathan’s gaze flicks up and meets mine. “Because I want to kiss you more than ever. And you want to kiss me, too. And, given present circumstances, that should not be happening. Not between…friends.”

God, he’s right. I shouldn’t want to kiss him. Not when we’ve barely crossed from enmity to friendly territory, not when there’s Mr. Reddit waiting for me at the end of this madness.

And yet here I am, staring at Jonathan and his mouth, remembering what it felt like to kiss him—the longing that flooded me with each stroke of his tongue, every deep, hot brush of his lips.

Friendship, the angel on my shoulder singsongs. You’ve agreed to friendship!

Friends don’t kiss like that, the devil purrs on my other side, twirling her fiery pitchfork deviously between her hands. Friends don’t star in your steamy nighttime fantasies—

Steeling my resolve, I lift my cup and offer a toast. “To friendship.”

Slowly, Jonathan lifts his cup and clinks it with mine. “Friendship.”

“To doing everything we can to save Bailey’s. To selling as many books as possible, even if it’s still in competition with each other. We can be professionally competitive but still friendly toward each other, right? We can agree not to fight anymore? Well, not fight with each other, but still fight for the store, because I am fighting for this. Bailey’s is my world. I’ve never wanted to work anywhere else.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I know that.”

“Can’t you go work somewhere else after the new year?” I plead, my elaborate toast abandoned. We set down our drinks. “You’re so business savvy. Don’t you want to crunch numbers in one of those skyscrapers downtown, make a lot of money, drive a brand-new SUV?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Wow, Gabriella. Could you make me sound any shallower?”

“I’m sorry.” I hang my head. “You’re not. I know you’re not. I just feel like you could succeed anywhere. And I’m not like that.”

Shifting so that one of his boots slides between mine, Jonathan knocks knees with me. “When you say, ‘I’m not like that,’ what does that mean?”

“It means…” I clamp my boots around his and nervously tap them. And then here they are, the words I’ve held back for so long: “It means I’m autistic. And finding work environments that suit my sensitivities, that play into my strengths, isn’t as easy for me as it is for you neurotypicals. It means I’m not great with people, but with books, I’m better. Books help me make sense of others, and they help me make sense to others. They’re my conduit, one of the best ways I can relate to people.

“There’s never been a place where I’ve felt so sure that I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to, that I’m right where I belong, as when I’m helping someone find the perfect book here at Bailey’s, connecting with them over a character, introducing a child to the story that begins their love of reading, turning a world-weary cynic into a voracious romance reader.”

Jonathan stares at me. Tentatively, his hand travels the table, and his fingers tangle with mine.