Page 12 of Stranded in A Small Town Christmas
I’m not sure why it matters to me. It’s certainly best for my imagination and my neglected sex drive if he stays in his room for the duration. My attraction to the uptight guy in the expensive suit has nothing on how much I want this version of him—relaxed in denim and flannel, with that flare of heat in his eyes every time he looks at me.
“With you as my Charming Lake holiday guide?” he asks, and I see too late how I’ve cornered myself.
“Of course.” I don’t see any way to say no.
I can’t look away as his lips curve into a smile that makes me feel like prey he’s toying with—but in a good way. “Spending the weekend with you? I can embrace that.”
Chapter Eight
Donovan
* * *
I don’t know why I’m torturing myself. Assuming I can find better footwear, there’s no reason I can’t wander around Charming Lake alone. There’s no good reason to spend the weekend in close proximity to Natalie.
Close enough to smell her hair. To feel the warmth radiating from her. Itching to touch her. Listening to her laugh and the warmth in her voice. Watching her mouth and wondering what kissing her would feel like.
Okay, I do know why I’m torturing myself. Bad idea or not, I can’t stop myself from wanting her. And judging by the way she keeps looking at me, her eyes sweeping up and down my body and her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she’s not against the idea, either.
Having a fling with the person I’m dependent on for literally everything right now would be a bad idea. But, like many bad ideas, it would really feel good while it lasted.
I’m about to take a step or two closer to her—to test her reaction—when her grandmother walks into the kitchen.
“Natalie, did your dad—“ She stops, blinking at him. “Oh. I didn’t expect to find you in here.”
“I insisted,” I say, just so there’s no confusion. “Since the inn is closed for Christmas, I’m not technically a guest. I’m more like a…”
I stop talking because I can’t think of a word to fill in that blank.
“Like a guest?” Jo supplies, and then she laughs. “I know what you mean.”
“Did my dad what?” Natalie asks.
“Oh, did he tell you the plow went by a few minutes ago?”
“He didn’t. I heard it, though. Thanks.”
Nana Jo turns her attention back to me. “What do you do for work, Donovan?”
I glance at Natalie, and she gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head. I’m not sure if she’s trying to tell me she hasn’t told my family who I am, or if she doesn’t want them to know.
“I’m in real estate,” I say, and it’s not actually a lie.
“Interesting,” she says. “I like to go to open houses because I’m nosy and sometimes they have cookies. Do you put cookies out?”
I try to imagine an open house with pastries for an eight or nine figure piece of commercial property and smile. “I don’t, but that’s an excellent idea that I’ll share with my team. Every business deal should involve cookies.”
Nana Jo gives me a big smile before disappearing again, and Natalie goes back to loading the dishwasher.
I’m not sure what the significance is of the plow going by. Obviously it means the roads are reasonably passable, but maybe Natalie’s grandmother had been hinting that they could get rid of the stranger she’d brought home.
“That was nice of you,” Natalie says. “Not laughing at her, I mean.”
Ouch. “Just because I have a lot of money doesn’t mean I’m a horrible person, you know.”
The sound she makes is straight skepticism, but I can’t really blame her. Most of the people with that much money make the news or social media for not great reasons. And there are very few people I’m involved in business with that I’d want around my family.
Rather than try to convince her I’m a decent guy with a knack for making money, I take over the job of scraping the plates so she can put them in the dishwasher. We work in silence for a few minutes, and it feels good. If somebody looked through the window, we’d look like a regular couple just cleaning the kitchen together, and I’m taken aback by how badly I wish that was true.
