Page 33 of Wintertime Love (Holiday 2)

My mouth trembles and I purse my lips into a thin line, trying to hide my conflicted feelings. “Of course not.”

“You’re lying,” he says, flatly.

My eyes flare up and my jaw tightens. “Watch it, pal.”

Suddenly, he’s grabbing my face and I see a cold anger on his, as he says in a taunting tone, “So the only time you’ll be honest is when my hands are on you? That’s not exactly a problem for me.” Gone is the charming Irishman with the laughing eyes and in his place is a man with icy eyes and a slow burning temper that is scalding in its intensity.

“Don’t try to intimidate me,” I warn even as my blood runs cold and I feel cornered.

A snarling wolf.

“Darlin’ I couldn’t intimidate you if I tried. But you sure love to push me around when you feel like it, ” he says, mockingly.

I feel the pain that is always lingering near the surface, these days, rise up and my throat tightens up, even as I force the tears back.

Bastard.

I push his hands away and stand up, my hot chocolate spilling on my leggings. I’m blind to the way it burns, my heart aching so badly that it’s hard to breathe. “I knew I shouldn’t have come,” I say with great difficulty. “I’m leaving.”

He grabs my wrist and pulls me back, “Your leg—?”

I yank my hand back, feeling the rush of hot tears. “Don’t touch me!”

I turn my head, not wanting him to see the way my eyes are shimmering against my will, and try to leave.

He swears in Irish and drags me back into his arms this time. “I’m sorry. Damn it. I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.”

For someone who rarely ever cries, this is twice in one night and I have only him to blame for my haywire emotions. “I’m not crying!” I struggle in his arms, only to be held even more firmly.

“Then why is my jacket wet?” He demands.

“It’s your jacket. Take some responsibility for it,” I retort, refusing to admit it.

A reluctant laugh is torn from his lips. “I wish you’d let me take some responsibility for you.”

My struggles are futile and I realize it, finally growing still.

Finn looks down at me. “If I let you go, do you promise not to run away?”

“What am I, five?” I mutter with dignity.

He gives me a deadpan look. “That’s not a promise I hear.”

I stay silent, mutinously.

He stares at me and warns, “You run and I drag your pretty ass back. Are we clear?”

“Asshole.”

“Keep the dirty talk for when I’m fucking you, Darlin’,” he says with a smirk.

Heat stains my cheeks but I can’t come up with any sort of retort.

He finally releases me.

I stumble back. “I don’t like you.”

“Sure you do,” he studies my face and looks relieved.

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