Page 41 of Hashtag Holidate
“You’re right. Never mind,” I said easily, pretending his reminder didn’t sting.
I walked over to the bedroom and rifled through one of my bags to find my tripod.
When I returned to the living room, Maddox glared at me. “I said no.”
“I heard you. Make yourself comfortable, but stay out of my fucking frame.”
I continued setting up the shot, moving lamps around, lighting the newspaper under the stacked logs in the fireplace, and settingthe tree and decorations within the frame. Though Maddox stood to the side, the weight of his stare was like a physical thing.
I went into the bedroom to pick out the right clothes from the Nordique collection, and my hands shook slightly as I pulled off my shirt, hyperaware that he was somewhere behind me. I stripped out of my own jeans and reached for the Nordique ones.
“What are you doing?” Maddox demanded, his voice noticeably gruffer.
The heat of his gaze seared my back as I pulled up the new jeans, but I didn’t turn around. “Working.”
“No sexy Nordique boxers?”
I turned, zipping the jeans and adjusting my junk to fit. “You don’t find plain black briefs sexy?”
Maddox’s eyes were dark and cheeks ruddy over his beard scruff. He swallowed hard before answering. “It’s not the briefs I find sexy,” he muttered before looking away.
His response shocked me. “I must’ve heard you wrong,” I said, incredulous. “For a minute there, it sounded like you complimented me, Sullivan.”
He looked up at the ceiling as if praying for patience. “Your sex appeal has never been in doubt.”
“No, it’s just everything else about me, right? Because I’m an asshole for selling a product for money… even though you do the same thing at the hardware store.” I grabbed a soft Nordique henley and pulled it on, suddenly self-conscious of my body.
“It’s not the same,” Maddox insisted, closer now, though I hadn’t heard him step into the room. “People need what we sell. We don’t manipulate them into buying shit they don’t need.”
“No? There’s an ad on the back of the bathroom stall door at the cafe offering free cinnamon-scented light bulbs with every purchase. ‘Come on down to Sullivan Hardware for your holiday essentials!’”
“I don’t do the advertisements,” he said, cheeks darkening. “That’s all Bonnie.”
“How nice for you that you have other people handling your marketing so you don’t need to dirty your hands with manipulation.”
I stalked back toward the tree. Maddox didn’t step away, and my arm brushed his chest as I passed. His sharp intake of breath sent a thrill through me.
“You make it sound like I have a damned marketing department. I don’t,” he said, losing his temper now. “Hell, maybe if I did, I wouldn’t be dead broke and on the verge of losing the fucking store.”
His words settled around us like shrapnel from a grenade blast. “Fuck!” he snapped, forking his fingers through his hair. “Can you just… forget I said that?”
I frowned. “You’re having trouble with the store? It’s popular as hell and the only place like it for miles and miles. You know, I have experience in marketing. I could help you?—”
Maddox glared. “I said forget it.”
“Fine.” I moved to my phone and connected my wireless lapel mic to the Bluetooth before attaching it to my shirt.
Talking to Maddox Sullivan was like talking to the giant spruce in the corner. God forbid someone give the stubborn man advice, let alone help.
The fire had gone out, so I decided to film myself relighting it in case it provided an entertaining comedic relief moment in my probably boring Christmas-tree-decorating clip.
I knelt by the fireplace, fumbling with matches and kindling, very aware of Maddox watching from his corner with his arms crossed over his chest.
The first match went out immediately. The second barely caught before dying.
“That’s not going to work,” Maddox muttered.
“Feel free to take over,” I chirped. “Unlike some people, I can admit when I need an assist.”
