Page 22 of Holiday Interference
It’s slow. Controlled. Coiled under the surface.
“I still think this is your move,” I murmur.
“Offering someone eggs?”
“No. Making them feel…comfortable. Without trying.”
He goes still. Not stiff. Just…still. Like something landed harder than expected.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” I say quietly, eyes on the faint steam rising between us. “It’s kind of dangerous, though.”
He pushes off the counter slowly, coming to stand on the other side of the island. Close, but not close enough.
“Comfort’s dangerous?”
“In the wrong hands, yeah.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Stays there.
“You think I’ve got the wrong hands?”
I should laugh. Should deflect. But my pulse is thudding in my throat, and I swear the air just got hotter.
“No,” I whisper, voice barely audible. “That’s the problem.”
The silence between us sharpens.
And I swear—for one breathless second—I think he’s going to round the island. Close the space. Back me into this stool and kiss me until I forget every reason why I shouldn’t want him.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he just nods once. Like he’s filing it away.
Danger acknowledged.
And not avoided.
Just…postponed.
He picks up the carafe with one hand, reaches across the island, and tips it toward my mug in silent offering. I slide it toward him, fingers brushing his.
It should be nothing. Just knuckles and warm skin.
But the contact hums, low and deep, like a current slipping under my skin.
He doesn’t pull away right away. Neither do I.
My pulse stutters, then rushes. I wrap both hands around the mug like I need the ceramic barrier. Like it’ll protect me from whatever this is turning into.
“You’re a little too good at listening,” I murmur, because silence suddenly feels too intimate.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t deflect. Just shrugs like it’s a fact he never meant to confess.
“I grew up around silence,” he says. “You learn to hear things that aren’t said.”
My fingers tighten around the mug. I look at him and don’t know what to say.
