Page 74 of Holiday Romance
Christ on a bike.
“Or maybe it was just a very good dream?”
Andrew rolls his eyes and starts to lean down but I stop him with a hand to his chest.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“What does it look like?” he asks, and I can’t help but smile at his irritated tone. I push him again and he follows the movement, collapsing beside me.
“Not when he’s still outside,” I tell him.
“He’s not.”
“Oh, no, I’m still here,” Oliver calls. “Listening too. Surprisingly thin walls, you see.” He knocks again and Andrew shoots a glare at the door before turning back to me. One look at my face and he recognizes defeat.
“Give me a minute,” he says, and I pat his arm.
“Excellent!” Oliver sounds delighted and a moment later I hear the gentle shuffle of his slippers against the floorboards.
Neither of us moves, Andrew still looking at me as though he’s hoping I’ll change my mind.
“You should go,” I say as I glance down his body, to the evidence of what I felt against me a few moments ago.
“He’ll have to wait a minute,” Andrew grumbles, and I bite my lip, trying not to look smug. I certainly feel smug. And Andrew knows it too, huffing as he climbs off the bed and snatches my robe from the floor. He sits back on the mattress as I pull it on.
“Are you okay?” he asks carefully.
I nod, pausing to look at him. “You?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay then,” I whisper, and we smile at each other as though sharing a joke, or maybe just sharing how ridiculous this is. In the best possible way.
“Goodnight, Andrew,” I say, pulling my gaze away from the sight of him, deliciously rumpled at the end of the bed. I feel his eyes on me as I head to the door and it’s not until I’m on the other side, closing it, that I hear his low response.
“Night, Moll.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THREE YEARS AGO
Flight Seven, Chicago
“I hate men. I hate them. I mean, look at this crap.Look.”
Andrew rears back as I shove the phone into his face, showing him a picture of Mark and his new girlfriend.Naomi.The woman with the poreless skin.
“See?” I demand when he doesn’t say anything.
“See what? Your screen’s locked.”
I drop my arm with a scowl, tapping in my password so hard I hurt my thumb.
“Molly—”
“Hang on,” I mutter as I put in the right digits. “There.” I turn my phone back his way with one hand and reach into my giant bag of duty-free toffees with the other. “It’s been three weeks since we broke up. Three weeks and they’re already on vacation. Do you know what that means?”
“I can’t think of a single answer that would make you not yell at me.”
