“I'm not a Scrooge,” he retorts, but there's a glint in his eyes that wasn't there before. A playfulness I'm learning to coax out of him.
“You literally just called mulled wine 'tolerable' like it committed a crime against your taste buds.”
His lips twitch ever-so-slightly. “Perhaps it did.”
I giggle, and he shakes his head, though I catch the smile he's trying to hide—and the way his eyes haven't left my face, like he's memorising something. “Drink your wine, Scrooge.”
He takes another sip anyway, and I count that as a win.
The market stretches out before us like something from a storybook, and I can't help but stop at every single stall, just as I warned him I would.
Cole doesn't complain, just follows along with that barely-there smirk. His hands are shoved in his coat pockets since finishing his mulled wine, and he occasionally offers dry commentary that makes me laugh harder than it probably should.
“Do you absolutely need an ornament of a hedgehog wearing a Santa hat?” he asks when I pick one up.
“Need? No, not in the slightest.Want? Absolutely.” I turn it over in my hands, admiring the tiny details. The little ceramic hedgehog has a distinctly grumpy expression that makes me smile. “Look how grumpy he looks. He reminds me of someone.”
I stare at Cole pointedly before quirking an eyebrow.
“I'm not grumpy.”
“You're delightfully grumpy.” I put the hedgehog back down, moving to the next stall, where glass ornaments catch the light like captured rainbows. “It's one of your better qualities, if you ask me.”
“One of?” He follows me, close enough that our shoulders brush, and I'm acutely aware of the heat radiating from him even through our winter coats. Close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with the crisp air. “Care to elaborate on the others, Sweetheart?”
The way he says that word—low and intimate, like a caress—makes my skin prickle with awareness. Makes me remember how it sounded in the dark, breathed against my neck, my lips, other places that make me flush just thinking about them.
While I push down the memories of last night, I pretend to think about it, making a point of tapping my chin as I examine a delicate glass snowflake. “Well, you're tall. That's helpful for reaching things.”
“Helpful for reaching things,” he repeats flatly, in a way that has me suppressing my threatening laughter.
“And you have excellent taste in whisky.”
“Better.” He nods, as though placated.
“And,” I say, glancing up at him through my lashes, “I can tell by the way you talk about your daughter that you're a wonderful dad.”
Something in his expression softens, his eyes warming in the glow of the market lights. “That's three things.”
“There's a fourth, actually. You did save my life. Twice today.” I bump my shoulder against his, letting it linger there. “That's pretty heroic, if you ask me.”
He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that way that does dangerous things to my pulse. His hand comes to rest on the small of my back, guiding me around an exceptionally crowded section of the market, and even through my coat, I can feel the warmth of his palm, the possessive way his fingers splay across my spine.
“Twice? Are you sure you're not being ataddramatic?”
“First, the cyclist, then steadying me when that rude businessman nearly sent me flying into a lamp post,” I point out, warming to my argument. I tilt my head up to meet his gaze, and something flares between us in the space of a heartbeat. Something hungry that reminds me of how he looked at melast night. “Two heroic rescues in one afternoon. You're really committed to this whole book boyfriend thing, aren't you?”
His eyes spark with something that makes my breath catch. “Do you think it’s working?”
“Maybe,” I admit, forcing myself to sound casual, even as his hand stays firmly at my back, warm and steady and making me want to lean into him. “Though I have to say, all this rescuing and apologising is very heroic. You're making it really hard to believe that note you left.”
His jaw tightens slightly, and I see the flash of something complicated in his eyes. “I meant what I said in that note.”
“I know you did.” I hold his gaze, my voice softening. “But just so you know, being a good guy doesn't require being perfect, Cole. It just requires showing up.”
His voice drops lower as he leans in slightly. “You might be giving me too much credit.”
“Or maybe you're being too hard on yourself,” I counter quietly, then deliberately lighten my tone before this gets too heavy. “But what do I know? I'm just the girl who keeps wandering into traffic.”
