The Mistletoe Motive(4)
He’s been here ever since, making the Baileys fall in love with him, proving himself indispensable. He’s confident and coolly efficient, and after a year under his influence, Bailey’s Bookshop runs like a well-oiled machine.
Jonathan’s the brain of this place. I admit that.
But me? I’m the soul.
I’m the whimsical touches in the window display, the thoughtful addition of plush armchairs tucked into cozy corners. I’m the warm smile that welcomes you and the artful front display table that draws you in. And Jonathan knows it. He knows that without me, this place would be industrious but impersonal, tidy but tedious.
In short: he needs me just as badly as I need him.
I realize that sounds like a great reason to join forces and set aside differences. But since The Dreaded Chain Bookstore (also known as Potter’s Pages) came into the neighborhood two years ago and our profits took a hit, I know it’s only a matter of time until the Baileys break the news that they can no longer afford both of us. And like hell am I going to have surrendered my place, to have allowed Jonathan Frost to become the dominant force that makes the Baileys’ choice between us a no-brainer.
Meaning, that while our feud might have started out as a clash of personalities, it’s now a duel to the death.
Er. Professional death, that is.
A drip of water from the faucet falls with a plink, wrenching my mind from its meandering path.
I realize I’ve been staring at Jonathan.
And Jonathan’s been staring back.
Apparently, we’ve been doing this for some time, judging by the way the world starts to blur and my eyes scream for me to blink.
Jonathan, of course, because he’s made of some cryogenic alien substance, looks entirely at ease as he leans in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He could do this all day. Blinking is for the weak.
Unable to ignore my eyeballs’ plea for mercy, I spin toward the massive floral arrangement and blink rapidly, barely choking back a relieved whimper as I pivot the vase and inspect it. That’s when I spot a small card wedged inside the blossoms. I’ve been so frazzled by Jonathan, I forgot to look for the note explaining who this is from.
My hand is halfway to the card when Jonathan says, “Wait.”
Frozen in place, I sense him behind me. Not so close that it’s inappropriate or invasive, but close enough to feel his solid warmth behind me, to breathe in his faint wintry-woods scent. I hate that so many smells give me headaches, but Jonathan’s is undeniably pleasurable.
Reaching past me, he tugs the poinsettia away from the plastic clip holding the card. “Careful.”
I glance up and meet his eyes. They’re evergreen dark, his jaw tight. Under the shop’s warm lights, I catch a glimmer of auburn in the bittersweet-chocolate waves of his hair. “Careful of what?” I ask.
“Poinsettia. They can cause a rash.”
I snort. “A rash.”
“A rash, Gabriella.” He juts his chin toward the note. “I told you, I’m not the one you have to worry about. Your boyfriend sent your sinuses’ worst nightmare and toxic plants.”
There it is again. My boyfriend.
Trey and I haven’t been together for six months, and even before that, “together” was a generous term. I’m someone who needs time to feel out my attraction, and while I was certainly struck by Trey, the smiling, golden-haired guy who bought my hot cocoa one morning at the coffee shop where I’d seen him ordering his latte, I wasn’t sure how I felt about dating him. But Trey was persistent, and soon he was buying my drink every morning, texting me all day, sending a private car to wait outside the bookshop after work, ready to whisk me his way so he could wine and dine me.
Which, in retrospect, was a red flag. I’d communicated the need for time to figure out how I felt. Trey only pursued me more fervently. And for two months, I let the appealing routine of our dinners out and conversations, being texted and checked in on, dull the warning signals blaring in my brain. I reasoned with myself, we’d turned out okay, hadn’t we? Sure, he’d pursued me a little aggressively, but most people I knew didn’t need the time that I did.
Being demisexual, I experience attraction less frequently and differently than most others seem to. It takes me a while to know whether I find someone attractive or desire them sexually, if I like the scent of their skin or the feel of their hand touching mine or the idea of being physically intimate. Any time I’ve experienced that kind of desire, it’s come after I’ve bonded with that person, established connection and familiarity. And that takes time to sort out.
Trey simply didn’t understand that, and I clearly hadn’t done a good enough job explaining myself. Or so I thought, back then. Now I know better—that what I’d told him should have been enough, that a good partner would have honored my boundaries, not steamrolled right over them.
Jonathan picked up that I was seeing someone. Trey never came by the shop, which made me a little sad since Bailey’s is my pride and joy, but he said he was busy and worked on the other side of town in finance, that the one morning he’d gotten a coffee from my local haunt was because of a meeting with clients, but now I made driving across town for coffee every morning entirely worth it.
I’d get flowers—and yes, they always made me sneeze—with sappy poem notes. He texted me and called enough for it to be obvious there was someone in my life.