“Sounds like hell,” I mutter, but there's no heat behind it.
“It's Christmas spirit, Hotshot.”
The nickname hits differently in the daylight. It’s warmer. More intimate. A callback to when she first said it, her eyes bright with mojitos and possibility.
“It's consumerism, Sweetheart.”
I see the moment the endearment registers—the way her breath catches once more, how her pupils flare. She remembers when I whispered it against her skin, how I groaned it when she took me in her mouth, the way I gasped it when her pussy tightened around me.
This was a really bad idea.
She laughs, the sound bright and uninhibited, but I can hear her slight breathlessness. “You're such a grump. How do you even celebrate Christmas?”
“Quietly.” I glance around pointedly as we exit the train, grateful for the distraction from my X-rated thoughts. “Without crowds.”
“That's just tragic.” She tilts her head, studying me with those impossibly blue eyes, and I feel seen in a way that should be uncomfortable, but somehow isn't. “Though I'm starting to suspect you're not quite as grumpy as you come across.”
“Is that so?”
“Mmhmm.” She's watching me now with something knowing in her expression. “Actual grumps don't save strangers from cyclists. Or buy them sandwiches. Or cancel their entire afternoon to go to Christmas markets.”
“Maybe I'm just a very dedicated grump,” I counter, but my lips are twitching with the effort not to smile.
I glance down at her, taking in the way snowflakes have settled in her hair like a crown, the freckle on her left temple just visible beneath the edge of her knit hat, the way her eyes sparkle with barely contained laughter. She's beautiful. More than that, she's magnetic, pulling me into her orbit without even trying.
And I'm in serious danger of forgetting why being near her is such a bad idea.
“Or maybe…” I murmur, my voice dropping lower, rougher. “Maybe you just bring out a different side of me.”
Her lips part slightly, making me want to trace my thumb across that pouty bottom lip. The same lip I bit last night. The same mouth that—
“A better side?” Her words are soft, and there’s a vulnerability in the question, like my answer matters more than it should.
“A reckless side,” I admit, my gaze intent on hers. “One that cancels meetings and takes impromptu trips to Christmas markets.”
“I like reckless Cole.”
I need to strain to hear her, but it’s the heat in her gaze that nearly undoes me.
The automated voice announces Covent Garden station, but neither of us moves. Around us, people surge toward the exits, but I feel as though we’re caught in our own bubble with the world fading to background static.
I’m dangerously close to erasing the distance between us. It would be so easy—tooeasy—to let myself want more than one night. More than one afternoon.
And the realisation scares the hell out of me.
Before I can make a decision I'll regret—or that I won't regret, which might be even fucking worse—a woman with a stroller behind us clears her throat pointedly, and only then do I realise we're blocking the exit.
After a hasty apology, Rory grabs my hand and starts pulling me toward the platform, and I let her, following in her wake like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like I'm not actively ignoring every warning bell in my head telling me to run before this becomes something I can't walk away from.
“Come on,” she says, practically bouncing with excitement as we climb the stairs into the snow-dusted streets of Covent Garden. The cold hits us like a slap, but she doesn't let go of my hand. “I'll buy you mulled wine to make up for dragging you here.”
“I don't drink mulled wine.”
She grins at me over her shoulder, snowflakes catching in her eyelashes, and something in my chest clenches painfully. “You do now.”
And despite every instinct telling me this is a terrible idea—that I should be in my office reviewing reports, that I have responsibilities, that I don't do spontaneous afternoons with beautiful women I barely know—I find myself grinning like an idiot.
“Fine,” I relent, and the word feels like surrender and victory all at once. Like stepping off a cliff and hoping like hell I'll figure out how to fly on the way down. “But if it's terrible, you're buying me a proper whisky after.”
