Page 11 of An Unexpected Christmas
His head lolls backward on a groan, and he steps aside, allowing me access to the hidden tree. “Fine. I’m not going to live this down anyway.”
“I’m shocked,” I say, folding my lips over my teeth to stop the grin from escaping as I pull the blanket off. “I’m also... impressed. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“It’s just a tree,” he mutters.
“Am I in a different universe? Did the storm whisk me away to Oz?” I taunt, fluffing the branches. “First, you’re worried about me in the storm, then you invite me over. And now, I find out you secretly have a Christmas tree? Who even are you right now?”
His lips twitch, and for a second, I think a smile might break through. Instead, he only shakes his head, and then disappears into the pantry. A moment later, he’s back with a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, a bottle of oil, and a dark glass of balsamic. He works without hesitation, mixing the oil and vinegar until they shimmer in the small dish, movements practiced, precise.
I don’t mean to stare, but when he reaches for the bread knife, he pushes the sleeve of his shirt higher, baring the solid line of his forearm. Muscles shift beneath his skin as he anchors the loaf, the knife gliding clean through. Each slice looks effortless, and for some unknown reason, my mouth goes dry. Jesus. I need an intervention.
He sets the knife down and reaches for the corkscrew. The twist of his wrist, the steady strength in his grip as he worksthe cork free, the clean pop that echoes through the quiet kitchen—it’s ridiculous how hot I find it. I’ve clearly reached a new low if a man opening a bottle of merlot is doing things to me. Or maybe it’s a kink unlocked, and I should be thankful. Either way, I’m really hoping my social media algorithm can’t read my thoughts. I’ll have thirst traps popping up before I can say Merry Christmas.
I lean against the counter, diverting my focus to his tiny, scrappy Christmas tree. “You know, this changes everything. I thought you hated Christmas, but deep down, you’re just a Grinch with a big ol’ heart after all.”
He gives me a long, measured look, the side of his lips twitching, as he reaches beside me for glasses. “It’s not a secret if you keep shouting about it.”
My breath hitches because his soothing pine scent washes over me, and then I get hit with the sweeter scent: it’s cinnamon. He smells like Christmas. Does he know that?
Focus, Frankie.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I say, my grin widening, trying not to sniff him again. “Your secret’s safe with me... for now. But wait until next year. I’ll cover your house in lights for you.”
Sam raises an eyebrow as he sets down the bread and wine between us. “Is that so?”
Is Sam flirting with me? His tone is so soft, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes that’s not irritation, but… interest. Have I ever noticed that before?
I blink a few times to make sure I’m not imagining it. “You have no choice now. You’ve shown me your hand, and your poker face sucks. This tree is too small though,” I say, pointing at it. “And you’d better believe I’m going to remind you of this night every time you complain about my lights.”
He smirks, the faintest hint of amusement flickering across his face as he pours us each a glass of wine. “You’ve got some nerve, coming into my house and insulting my tree.”
“I’m not insulting it,” I say, holding up my hands. “It’s got character. Personality. Charm.”
“Like me?” he shoots back, his tone laced with just enough humor to make me feel warm all over. Bantering with him has always been easy, but making it playful? I don’t knowthisSam. I could like this Sam.
I falter for a second, but recover with a laugh. “Let’s not push it. You’re still a work in progress, Mr. Grinch.”
He huffs a quiet sound that rumbles in my own chest, and I like it. “Sit down, Frankie. I think you’ve had enough fun at my expense for one night.” The way he says it seems more like a demand than a suggestion; my nerve endings dance with glee, and the little devil on my shoulder wants me to push a little more to see what else I can get from him.
I plop onto a stool at his kitchen breakfast bar, still smiling. “Oh, the fun is just getting started.”
Sam
Why can’t I stop talking to her?
Frankie sits at my breakfast bar, her second glass of red swirling between her slender fingers. The alcohol has clearly softened her a little, and she has cute, rosy cheeks now.
Her eyes wander over the room, taking in every corner like she’s cataloging my life one detail at a time as I warm the chicken vegetable soup I made this morning on the stove.
“I didn’t think you’d be a minimalist,” she says, breaking the quiet.
I glance up from the bubbling pot. “What were you expecting? Antlers on the walls? Floral wallpaper? A leather couch?”
“No,” she snorts, and the sound is utterly ridiculous. I kind of like it; it makes her more human. “But maybe a little personality? A picture frame? A plant? Something to prove you don’t live here under witness protection.”
I huff softly, unwrapping more fresh bread from the counter. “Maybe I’m running from the law.”
She stares at me for a beat, not breathing. It’s not until I give her a purposeful grin that she deflates. “You sneak, tricking melike that. Imagine if I just blew your cover by saying that? I’d never forgive myself.” She swats the air, trying to get me, but I move back.
