Page 12 of Her Christmas Fix
“Everyone deserves to buy their own damn produce,” I answer instead, releasing her wrist.
The smile she offers is a little wobbly around the edges. “Okay, then.”
We clean up the kitchen in comfortable silence, like we both need time to shore up our emotional walls. She washes and I dry, and when she hands me the final pot, our fingers brush. But this time, neither of us pulls away.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For the grocery store offer. For everything.”
I set the pot down and turn to face her fully. Her sleeves are pushed up past her elbows, and there’s a strand of hair falling across her face. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but it looks to me like her eyes are less shadowed than they were that first night. All I know for sure is that she’s never looked more beautiful. “Monika...”
She steps closer, or maybe I do. It could be that we both move at once. Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, right over my hammering heart, and I know she can feel how hard it’s pounding. My hand finds her waist, my thumb brushing the strip of skin where her sweatshirt has ridden up.
“This is probably a bad idea,” she whispers even as she leans in closer.
“Terrible.” I cup her face with my other hand, marveling at the softness of her skin.
Her eyes flutter closed, and those pouty lips part slightly. I’m about to close the distance when my phone buzzes on the counter, fracturing whatever this moment was about to become. We spring apart like guilty teenagers.
“I should—” She gestures vaguely toward the living room.
“Yeah. Early morning tomorrow.”
She nods, fleeing to the safety of the couch, and I grab my phone without even checking who texted. It’s not important. Notas important as how every cell in my body is screaming at me to follow her, to finish what we started.
Instead, I head to my bedroom, closing the door and leaning against it. I can hear the now-familiar sounds of her nighttime routine as she gets ready for bed and force myself not to go back out there and invite her to sleep here with me.
Where it feels like she belongs, even though I know it’s not true. Christ, I’m in so much trouble.
6
MONIKA
I’m practically vibratingwith anticipation as I wait for Griffin by his truck at seven in the morning. I’ve walked dozens of red carpets in the past decade, but the idea of doing something as simple as grocery shopping feels like the event of the year.
I can’t wait to pick out my own berries. Buy two different types of sugary cereal just because I can.
Griffin emerges from his cabin looking like he needs at least two more hours of sleep and a gallon of coffee. His dark hair is sticking up in several directions, and he’s wearing the same flannel shirt from yesterday under a thick canvas jacket that hugs his broad shoulders in ways I’m trying not to notice.
“Morning, sunshine,” he grumbles, squinting at me like he’s taking umbrage at my excitement. It’s cold but not cloudy, almost like the sun might make a showing before the forecasted rain rolls in later this afternoon.
“Such a good morning!” My voice comes out way too chipper, and his wince tells me I need to dial it back. “Ready for our adventure?”
He stops mid-stride and stares at me. “It’s grocery shopping, Monika. Not a safari.”
“I’ve been on multiple safaris. This is way better.” I’m bouncing on my toes, not quite able to switch that dial.
He shakes his head and hands me a well-worn baseball cap with an Oregon Ducks logo. “You can tuck your hair up under this.”
I take the cap, trying not to think about how it smells clean and woodsy, just like Griffin. “Thanks. It’ll add to the disguise.” I slide my sunglasses on, despite the dim morning light.
Griffin makes a show of studying me, and I try not to fidget under his whiskey-hued gaze. Eyes that piercing should come with a warning label. “Those are definitely designer and probably cost more than my monthly truck payment.”
“They’re just sunglasses, and your truck is nice.” But he’s not wrong. They’re Tom Ford and ridiculously expensive.
“My truck is fucking awesome, and those glasses scream I’m famous and trying to hide it.” But there’s amusement in his voice now. “You look cute, though.”
The compliment catches me off guard, and heat creeps up my neck. When’s the last time someone called me cute instead of stunning, gorgeous, or one of the other over-the-top terms thrown around in my industry?
“Should we go?” Standing here imagining that Griffin is flirting with me won’t help my already frazzled state.
