Page 27 of Izzy and Her Off-Limits Love

“I prefer brunettes. Especially ones who used to be more dirty blond,” Liam says, and I’m glad my face is hidden so he can’t see the way I’m blushing. Or how I’m grinning.

As I got older, my sun-kissed locks darkened little by little. Only sometimes in summer, if I’ve spent a lot of time outside, will I see any hint of a lighter, honey color.

Liam is talking about me, and I feel giddy at the thought.

We’ve been dancing around this since last night, the subtle flirting shifting into not-so-subtle subtext. It’s kept butterflies in a constant holding pattern, fluttering around my belly nonstop. Part of me wants to drop the tree, climb over it, and throw my arms around Liam.

The other part of me loves the anticipation of it all. It’s like seeing the presents under the tree and knowing you can’t open them until Christmas morning.

I stumble on the top step but manage to keep my feet under me. Thankfully, another resident happens to be walking through the door and holds it for us as we try to squeeze through. It takes Liam a little wiggling, but he finally manages with a grunt. I still can’t see him through the branches.

We set the tree down outside Liam’s door so he can find his keys. I clench and unclench my fingers, which are starting to cramp. My palms are red and a little scraped, but Liam got the worst of it. There’s a slim cut on his cheek, and as he unlocks the door, I step closer and brush my fingers over his face.

“Looks like the tree marked you,” I say. “It broke the skin.”

“A branch slapped me when we were coming through the stairwell door, but it doesn’t hurt.” His hazel eyes suddenly flare with intensity. “How do you feel about guys with scars?”

Feeling bold, I lean forward and press a lingering kiss to his skin just over the cut. He smells like Christmas. Like pine sap and cold air.

When I pull back, his eyes are molten, a hint of color darkening his cheeks.

“They’re the sexiest,” I say. “My favorite kind.”

Two hours later,the tree is up with lights and a smattering of ornaments. It’s massive, dwarfing his apartment, but it also makes the box-filled space look much warmer and more inviting.

We survived a friendly battle over how to decorate the tree, with Liam wanting to space things out evenly and intentionally alternate sizes so it looked uniform. I thought it would take all the fun out of decorating to follow a pattern, so we endedup landing somewhere in the middle. The tree doesn’t look magazine-perfect, but it’s bright and full and beautiful.

I wrapped big red bows around the backs of his chairs and barstools at the counter, a skill I learned in college when I worked in a home store and part of my job was gift wrapping. Liam hung strands of lights from one side of the room to the other, all while we listened to Christmas music and sipped hot cocoa. The only thing we forgot was marshmallows, which is almost a crime when it comes to hot cocoa.

But honestly—being around Liam is enough to make me forget marshmallows.

“I think our work here is done,” I say, leaning a hip on the kitchen island and glancing around.

Liam joins me and surveys the apartment. “This is the best this place has ever looked,” he says. “Maybe I should keep it up year-round.”

“Or you could let me help you decorate. Not that you couldn’t do it on your own,” I say quickly, hoping I didn’t offend him.

“I’d love the help,” he says. “I like the sound of having more Izzy around here.”

I don’t know whether he means he’d like touches of Izzy decor around his apartment or if he’d just likemearound. Hopefully both.

“Oh—one more thing I forgot.”

Liam walks to the table which is laden with empty shopping bags and boxes. He pulls out a green floral thing that I definitely didn’t buy.

“What is that?” I ask.

He turns, his cheeks an endearing shade of pink. “It’s mistletoe. According to the tag, anyway. I’m not sure if this is what mistletoe is supposed to look like.”

I’m not sure either, but I’m a lot more preoccupied withwhyLiam bought mistletoe in the first place. “How did you manage to buy that without me noticing?”

He smirks. “I have my ways. Now, help me decide where to hang it. I could put it here …” Liam walks toward the door leading back to the bedroom, office, and bathrooms and holds the mistletoe up. Before I can respond, he’s crossing toward the living room, where he lifts it near the ceiling fan. “Or here.”

“Either place is fine,” I manage to croak out. My throat is suddenly dry, and my heart beats an erratic rhythm in my chest.

“Or,” Liam says, taking slow, deliberate steps until he’s only inches away from me. He lifts the mistletoe right above us both. “I’m thinking maybe it should go right here.”

Heat spreads over my skin like wildfire, and I swallow before speaking, trying to sound unaffected. But my voice comes out wobbly, and my gaze keeps bouncing from Liam’s eyes to his mouth. “How w-would you hang it?”

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