Page 39 of Wintertime Heat (Holiday 1)

I frown, “What do you mean?”

He gestures toward the window as he makes his way to a small mini bar that I hadn’t noticed, “Go look out the window.”

I stride over to the golden draped windows and push them apart, only for my eyes to widen.

There was a conjoining terrace outside, and I if I were to twist the lock, I would step out into a blinding blizzard.

“When did this start?” I ask with a hint of dismay.

“Moments after we got back,” Steven answers from right behind me and I whirl around to see him standing there, a bare inch between us, his eyes glittering like the firelight.

My lips part on seeing him so close, and I couldn’t ignore the way my pulse rate raced.

“Scotch?” He holds out the thick glass to me, and I accept it.

What was wrong with me?

I watch him as he loosens his tie, picks up the trench coat I had abandoned on the chair, and hands it in the bathroom to dry.

He wasn’t even flirting with me right now, and all I could think was how delicious he looks. Biting my lower lip, I stare at the golden liquid in the glass.

It felt like his presence had erased the past one hour.

He steadies me.

I was calmer now and feeling more like myself.

“You haven’t touched your drink.”

He must have noticed me staring, because he was staring right back at me, with cocked brows.

“Yeah,” I felt a little sheepish. I sip at it, and the taste of it shocks me.

“It’s so smooth,” I murmur.

“It’s 70 years old,” He tells me.

I blink.

This was some very expensive scotch.

Seeing the unease on my face, Steven laughs, “Don’t worry. My grandparents own their own brewery and vineyard. They send their finest stuff every few months.”

My shoulders relax, and I finish the rest, putting down the empty glass on the polished wood of the bar.

“So, I have to stay here?”

“I’m not letting you leave in this weather,” Steven sits down in one of the armchairs near the fire, crossing his legs.

“So, um,” I look around. “Where do I sleep?”

A slow smile on his face, and he sips at his drink, “Where do you want to sleep?”

The answer was obvious, and he must have expected me to say it, but the words ‘guest bedroom’ got stuck in my throat.

“I don’t want to be alone.” I say, simply.

He freezes.

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