Page 21 of Stranded in A Small Town Christmas
I laugh. “Oh, no. You were totally a jerk in the airport and I assumed you were a guy with a suit and too much money who thought the world served him. But I’ve learned that when you’re not scared for your mom and unable to get to her, you’re a pretty decent guy.”
“Pretty decent, huh?” He chuckles and takes another step toward me. He was already close to start with, so our bodies are almost touching now. “It almost sounds like you like me.”
My heart squeezes in my chest. Yes, I like him. I like him a lot and I don’t want him to know that. This is temporary—a holiday interlude—and I want to keep it fun and light. Amelia gets her van, Donovan gets to soak up some Christmas spirit, and I get to flirt with a billionaire. And we’re leaving it there because he and I don’t work in the real world.
“You’re okay,” I tease, and then his hand is in my hair, lifting my face to his.
There’s nothing tentative about this kiss. His mouth is demanding, as if he’s claiming me, and I part my lips for his tongue. His fingers tighten in my hair and I moan, my hands sliding under his coat so I can run my hands over his back. I’ve never hated flannel more than now, when it’s a barrier between my palms and his naked skin.
He catches my bottom lip between his teeth and pauses, the muscles in his back taut as his quick breaths match mine. Then my lower back is against the island, his hips pressed to mine as my fingernails dig into the flannel.
I’m trying to calculate how long we have before somebody comes looking for me—and the popcorn—when the doorbell rings, a resounding chime that startles me because nobody ever rings the doorbell. I didn’t even realize it still works.
“Saved by the bell,” Donovan mutters as I pull away, his hand sliding free of my hair.
Honestly, I’d rather ignore the bell and drag Donovan upstairs or into the coat closet or anywhere even remotely semi-private, but I can’t. Whoever’s standing on the porch is obviously a stranger and here for a reason.
And when I open the door and see a young guy in jeans and a sports hoodie holding an outrageously expensive-looking leather briefcase, I know what the reason is. Donovan’s real life has shown up at the inn, and the party’s over.
I invite the young man in, and I watch as Donovan opens the briefcase. I spot a slim wallet and a smartphone inside, along with a lot of papers and folders, and then he closes and locks it again. He has to sign for it, and then the guy leaves.
“I guess that’s the end of your holiday fun, huh?” I have no doubt he’s going to lock himself away to catch up on email and stocks and whatever else it is super rich people do all day.
He looks at me for a long time, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Then he picks up the briefcase. “Wait here.”
I watch him go up the stairs and then I follow the sound of his footsteps in the hall. I hear his door close and then the footsteps retrace the path back to the stairs. He doesn’t have the case with him, and I realize he must have just tossed it into his room.
He meets me at the bottom of the stairs and gives me a smile that melts my heart. “Let’s go deliver that popcorn so I can get my snickerdoodle.”
Chapter Fourteen
Donovan
* * *
Considering how much walking I’ve done today and the amount of festivity I’ve taken part in, I should be exhausted. Every time I lock eyes with Natalie, though, it’s like getting a shot of pure adrenaline.
Being with her gives me the kind of rush I usually only get from coming out on top in a tense negotiation or bringing an allegedly impossible development deal together.
Maybe that’s why the very first emotion I felt when I saw my briefcase was regret. Not relief or a need to touch base with my email or spreadsheets, but regret that the forced festivity is coming to an end.
And maybe that rush I feel when Natalie looks at me is why, despite having multiple businesses to run and my right-hand woman being unavailable, I tossed my recovered briefcase on the bed and haven’t looked back.
I don’t want this weekend to end.
Plus, there’s knowing now that she’s not a woman who was looking to take advantage of a stranger in need. Reminding myself of that misconception had been the brakes I employed every time my imagination started running away with my common sense.
Now I have no brakes, and my imagination is a runaway train as I sit on a hay bale next to Natalie. We’re sipping hot cocoa and watching the revelry going on around us, and she’s close enough so the length of her thigh is warm against mine.
“Did you have fun today?” she asks.
I should lie to her—and to myself—and tell her I’d rather have been catching up on work instead, but I can’t make myself say the words. “I did. A lot of fun, actually.”
“See? There is more to life than business. And maybe when you get out of here and get back to your laptop and your shiny office, you’ll see that it didn’t all crumble because you spent a couple of days off the grid, eating Christmas cookies and driving in the snow.”
I can feel the words rising in my throat and I try to stop them. I’ve never told any woman why I’m so driven—why succeeding at business is not only something I’m good at, but necessary if I want to take an easy breath. Hustling and pushing all day is the only way I can relax enough to sleep at night.
But she’s looking at me with her eyes sparkling and her cheeks red from the cold, and the words spill out.
