Page 20 of Holiday Interference
Closer to her than I probably should be.
CHAPTER SIX
Noelle
The kitchen smellslike butter and bad coffee and him.
And maybe I shouldn’t find that combination this intoxicating, but here I am—barefoot, bed-headed, and trying not to let my thighs press too tightly together under his flannel shirt.
It’s early. Snow still smudges the windows, and the world’s quiet.
But my body isn’t.
Cal stands at the stove like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like he doesn’t have a six-foot-three frame of lean, sleepy muscle just lounging in a T-shirt and the flannel pants that match my flannel shirt.
His back flexes as he flips the eggs. I can’t stop watching the slow roll of his shoulders, the way his hand braces the edge of the counter like he’s done this a hundred times.
There’s nothing flashy about it. No bravado. Just a man making eggs and still managing to short-circuit my nervous system.
Is it hot in here?
No? Just me?
My pulse bumps in that slow way it does when desire coils low in your gut.
I shift on the barstool, bare legs brushing the edge of the cabinet beneath me. The flannel rides up a little higher, and I catch the way his eyes flicker—not obvious, just a beat too long on the hem before he grabs a plate.
Good.
Let him look.
Let him feel it too.
I drag my gaze back to his hands—rough-knuckled, strong, careful as he plates the eggs. I wonder what those hands would feel like on my thighs. On my hips.
If he’d be that slow everywhere else.
God, I need to get it together.
“This your version of playing house?” I ask, voice breezy, when everything inside me is taut with want. “Because you’re really leaning into the shelter-from-the-storm vibe.”
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t smirk. Just deadpans, “Instant coffee and eggs. Bare minimum hero arc.”
The dry note in his voice slides under my skin like heat through a cracked window.
I huff a quiet laugh, pressing the mug to my lips to hide the smile that’s threatening. “Still counts. You fed a stray. Gave her your bed. Didn’t even grumble about it.”
He finally glances over, and there’s something different in his eyes—something low and unreadable and warm.
“You’re not a stray.” His voice is quieter now. “And I didn’t give you the bed. You just took it.”
That lands lower than it should. Somewhere between my belly and the ache building behind my knees.
My breath catches, and I hate that he probably hears it.
The plate slides toward me. He grabs a fork from the drawer and sets it down without a word. Our fingers brush—bare skinon bare skin—and even that stupid little touch feels like too much.
I don’t pull away.
