Page 41 of The Grump Who Stole Christmas
She ran her fork against the plate making sure to capture every drop of sauce. “Now I have. Except I’ll wash and dry. You cooked. Fair’s fair. Go watch TV or something.”
Maybe it was fair, but I found myself not wanting to leave the homey-ness of the kitchen. I liked the way it smelled in here. I liked the way she looked so satisfied. As if she hadn’t eaten a full meal in ages.
I liked…her.
Together we brought the plates to the kitchen sink. She set her half-filled wine glass on the window sill and it felt like she’d seen her mom do that probably a million times.
She filled up the sink with water and soap and we loaded up the plates.
“You have to let them soak a bit,” she said, as she took a sip of wine. It was hard to tell, but I thought maybe she looked nervous.
Was I crowding her? I didn’t think so. I was leaning against the counter, a drying towel in my hand ready for the first dish.
Was there tension between us? A pull?
I’d teased her earlier about her silk shirts. Getting a rise out of her any way I could was just flat-out fun. But now I couldn’t help wondering if there was something there.
Because I did like to watch her eat. I did like those soft snores she made in her sleep and the number one thing I wanted to see her do was come.
On my fingers, on my tongue, on my cock.
Oh shit. Was I crushing on the boss’s daughter?
Worse, was I crushing on the boss’s daughter who would be headed back to Manhattan as soon as she saved her father’s struggling business?
“So you think this whole publicity thing with Matt will work?” I asked. Because if it did work, it might temporarily help the inn out, but would it be enough?
Or would that even matter to her? If she thought her father was healing, and the inn was on more stable ground, would that give her the permission she needed to go back to her fast-paced corporate life?
“It better. And if it means he has to wear a Santa suit, he’s doing it.”
She pulled a plate out of the hot soapy water and took a sponge to it, rinsed it, then handed it to me.
I nodded. Took the plate from her hands and started drying it.
“Then what happens?” I asked, as I placed the plate in the rack on the counter.
“What do you mean?” Another plate, another scrub and rinse.
This time when I took the plate from her hand, our fingers brushed.
Shit. My dick was getting hard. My dick was getting hard because our fingers brushed. No, no, no.
Not her, dick. Anyone but her!
“I mean, do you go back to New York and hope everything turns around?”
She didn’t say anything in response and I realized how none of my business it was. Except why did I want to make it my business?
“I’m sorry. That sounded like maybe I was trying to guilt trip you. I’m not. As the recipient of more than a million of my father’s guilt trips, I should be more sensitive. You’ve got to do what works for you and your life. You’re not responsible for the success or failure of the Kringle Inn. Your father would be the first one to say that.”
“He would. Even though he would grumble about it,” she said. She handed me the last of the plates. There was an odd expression on her face. Like she’d just been caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“I didn’t think brownie buddies had secrets between them.”
“Everyone thinks I’m this corporate killer shark. They’re all expecting me to be CEO of some organization. Eventually. It’s how I’ll know, how they’ll know, I finally made it. Finally reached my goals.”
“Boss Lady,” I muttered.
