The Mistletoe Motive(42)

I give him a flat look. “Wow. Way to smash the patriarchy.”

“I saw no less than five people hit on you today. I was just trying to convey that you’re here to do your job and enjoy yourself, not fend off unwanted advances.”

“Who was hitting on me? I didn’t even notice.”

He gives me a withering look. “Don’t pretend you don’t know, Gabriella.”

“I’m serious! I can’t tell when people are flirting with me.”

He stares at me for a moment, his expression tense, before he clears his throat and says, “Well, trust me. They were.”

“Hm.” I stare at the name tag. “So he’s sabotaging my sales, after all.”

“You sold me under the table today, and you know it.”

“Yeah, I did.” Leaning in, I whisper, “So. Many. Children’s. Books.”

His gaze dips to my mouth. That’s when I realize I’m in his lap still, our faces mere inches apart. I lean a little closer. Jonathan does, too. And it feels like a tear down the center of me, an awful, aching tug-of-war.

I’m meeting Mr. Reddit three days from now—Boxing Day, outside the Winter Wonderland display at the conservatory, 10:00 a.m. sharp—a plan I picked from among the ones he proposed in our Telegram chat, as promised. I’ve been counting down the days, both excited and nervous that we’ll finally meet.

But it’s harder now, to remind myself that I’m holding out for Mr. Reddit, the unlikely friend I found, who I’ve hoped might become more, when Jonathan Frost and I are seconds away from kissing each other.

Stay strong, Gabriella! the angel on my shoulder whispers.

Before the devil on my other side can chime in and tempt me, I spring out of Jonathan’s lap and fuss with the sequins of my snowflake dress. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

Jonathan sits upright, too, and clears his throat. There’s a flush on his cheeks. “A cup of tea?”

“With a splash of whiskey. I think we earned it.”

“Ah, so you too know that Mrs. Bailey keeps it in the cabinet for when she has to do month-end financials.”

I laugh. “Before you came, that whiskey bottle made an appearance, often in our tea, at least once a week.”

“Sure. Then let’s have tea.”

Jonathan goes to stand, presumably to contribute to tea-making, but I gently clutch his shoulders and push him back. “Sit. You did so much to make today happen.”

“So did you,” he says. “I can help.”

“Don’t argue with me for once, okay, Frost? You did a ton. Now let me make tea.”

“I’ll keep you company, at least,” he says, gently clasping my elbows and guiding me back so he can stand.

After traipsing together into the back room, I prepare tea in the kitchenette while Jonathan digs around in his messenger bag, pulls out his glucometer, and does a finger prick as he sits at the breakroom table.

Seemingly satisfied with what his glucometer has to say, Jonathan packs up his kit and stashes it in his bag. He steps close behind me. “Sure I can’t help?”

It’s so unbearably pleasurable, his voice low and quiet, his big body right behind me, I nearly burn myself, pouring tea. I want to lean into him, let my head fall back against his shoulder and feel his arms wrap around me. “N-no. I’ve got it under control.”

He seems to hesitate for a moment, like he’s weighing…something. But whatever it is, it passes. Without another word, Jonathan strolls back toward the fireplace, then drops onto the wingback with a sigh.

“How ya feeling?” I ask, stealing a glance at him as I doctor our teas with whiskey.

He lounges in the wingback like a king on his throne, one long leg stretched out, an arm thrown behind his head. Firelight paints his face, the long line of his nose, the hollows of his cheeks. Our eyes meet, and he tips his head, examining me. “Fine, Gabriella.”

I stare at the dark waves of his hair, his cool green eyes and long nose. Sharp cheekbones and lush mouth. And yet, for all his severe handsomeness, there’s something softer about him as he looks at me, as I look at him.

Two cups of Darjeeling in hand, with a splash of milk and whiskey in each, I walk carefully back to the chairs and pass him his. “I put a sugar cube and a peanut butter blossom on the saucer. Not sure if you could use a little boost or not right now.”

“Thank you.” He takes the cup from me and forgoes the sugar cube but bites into the cookie.

Sitting across from him, I tuck my legs underneath me.

We drink our tea and crunch on our cookies in silence, staring into the fire. Until I glance his way and notice Jonathan’s watching me. “What is it?”

He stares at me for a moment longer before he drains his tea, then sets it aside and says, “The numbers are in. Congratulations, Miss Di Natale. You won.”

My stomach sinks. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why not? You should be proud, Gabriella. You outsold me. Not that I ever doubted you would.”

Tears blur my vision. It feels like an ice pick puncturing my chest.

I drain my tea, hoping it will thaw the chill spreading through my body, but I don’t even feel the whiskey burn its way down as I blurt, “You’re not quitting for sure, right?”

Jonathan examines me carefully, hands interlaced across his stomach. “Those were the terms of our agreement.”