Page 8 of Decking the Halls
“And then?”
“Then I want to take you upstairs,” I admit. “Lay you out on my bed. Spend hours learning every sound you make and every way you say my name.”
The color rises in her cheeks. “Wren…”
“I want to make you forget what it felt like to be tolerated instead of wanted.” I lift her hand, pressing my lips to her palm. Her skin tastes… good. God damnit, she tastesgreat.Way better than this pie. “I want to keep you warm, Edie. That’s all.”
Her lashes flutter. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.” I release her hand, even though it feels wrong to stop touching her. “But I’ll settle for showing you my garage. For now.”
She bites her lip, that same nervous-reckless gesture that’s been driving me insane since last night.
“Just the garage?”
“Whatever you want, hon.” I toss enough cash on the table to cover our check. “But I should warn you—once I get you alone, I might forget how to behave.”
Her voice is a whisper. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
Sweet. My pulse stumbles. “Careful, Edie. I might take that as permission.”
“Maybe it is.”
We hold each other’s gaze for a long, charged beat before she slides out of the booth, decision made.
Outside, the drizzle has given way to mist. Coos Bay smells like seagull shit and brine. Fog curls off from the nearby harbor, obscuring half of the vehicles flying by on the highway. Edie looks toward the parking lot.
“No bike today?”
“Truck,” I say. “Too slick out for two wheels. Besides, the cab heater works.”I open the passenger door for her. “And it means I get to keep you close a little longer before you go back to your car.”
She climbs in, the seat creaking beneath her. When I shut the door and circle to the driver’s side, the cab feels smaller than it should, and… damnit, it smells like oil in here. What good does it do me to declutter once a month if it still reeks of salty air and old, leftover McDonald’s in here?
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Nowhere yet.” I start the engine for warmth but leave it in park. “Just wanted you alone for a minute.”
“Wren…”
“That dinner tomorrow night,” I interrupt. “At my parents’ place—you’re still going?”
“My folks expect me. They’ve been friends with yours since forever. Skipping would raise questions.” She sighs. “Nick’s going to be there.”
“Yeah.” I rest an elbow on the steering wheel. “You ready for that?”
“Maybe this was a bad idea,” she murmurs. “Maybe we should just—”
“Don’t.” I catch her hand again. “Don’t talk yourself out of this.”
“Out of what? We barely know each other.”
Sure, Edie. Make me laugh. “Then why does it feel like we do?” When she doesn’t answer, I add, “Been an us since you walked into that tree lot. Maybe since before that.”
She exhales, staring at our hands. “You’re going to complicate everything.”
“Good,” I say. “Simple’s overrated.”
I tug her closer. The leather creaks. “Come here.”
