Page 30 of Holiday Interference
“You’re one of those true crime people, aren’t you?” he asks, thumb pausing over a documentary about cults and chaos.
I arch a brow. “What gave it away? My general sense of mistrust or the resting bitch face?”
He huffs a laugh, low and amused. “Both, actually.”
There’s a flicker of heat under his grin that I feel all the way down my spine.
I shift, pretending to adjust the blanket. My thighs brush his for half a second, and every nerve in my leg lights up like static under skin.
The proximity’s nothing, really—two people sitting side by side. And there are multiple layers of fabric between us. It’s not like we’re skin on skin.
And doesn’t that take my brain in places it has no business going.
I’m hyper-aware of every inch separating us. And every inch that isn’t.
He settles on a series neither of us has seen before. Something easy and episodic, half action, half narrative. Background noise, basically.
But we don’t move apart.
We just sit there, sharing the blanket. The heat from his body bleeds into mine in slow waves.
I tuck my feet under me. Try to focus on the screen, anything other than focusing on him.
But I can’t.
Because he’s so close.
Because I can hear him breathing.
Because I keep wondering if he’s feeling it too—the weight of the not-touching.
My skin hums like I’ve been kissed by tension, my pulse echoing deep in my belly now, low and persistent.
He shifts, reaching for the remote, and the back of his hand brushes my knee under the blanket.
I go still. So does he.
Neither of us pulls away.
His fingers curl slightly, like maybe he meant to touch me. Like maybe he’s debating whether to do it again.
I bite the inside of my cheek and force a breath through my nose. It comes out too shaky.
“You always this good at storm hospitality?” I ask, voice softer than I meant. “Blankets, coffee, entertainment. I’m impressed.”
He looks at me then—not just glances,looks—and something unspoken passes between us, low and hot and steady.
“I don’t usually have guests,” he says, quiet. “Especially not ones who steal my flannels and sass me before breakfast.”
A smile curves my lips before I can stop it. My chest tightens.
“You’ll survive,” I murmur.
But the way he’s watching me?
It feels like maybe he’s not so sure.
My skin prickles. Not with fear, but with anticipation. With heat.
