Which left me feeling all kinds of topsy-turvy. I’d let him get close, and for what? For him to wipe my lip and leave?
What the fuck?
The thud of disappointment as he’d pulled away had caught me off-guard. When Henry pushed himself to his feet and walked out, leaving me on the floor with my pudding, I wanted to demand he come right back over and put his god damned tongue in my mouth.
I scrubbed harder, as though cleaning dishes could fix the disturbing void he’d left.
‘Why do you even care?’ I asked myself. ‘He’s not even your type. He’s too cheery. Too hoppy. Too sweet. I liked men a little darker… in the bedroom at least.
Although Henry had said he knew how to take control and sent my thighs clenching, he probably didn’t mean it how I hoped he did.
I should not be thinking about him.
Not like this.
Not with a warm, traitorous pull in my stomach.
But no matter how hard I scrubbed, the moment kept replaying in my head. Searching for what I’d done to make him leave. Was it my fault? Did my resting bitch face send him scarpering? Or had I imagined the heat in his eyes? No. It had been there. The way his thumb brushed my lips, like he was thinking about how they’d feel pressed against his. The way the air had thickened between us, growing heavy. The way he’d looked at me like he needed to taste…
I groaned as I dried up the dishes.
I shouldnotbe lusting after the gardener.
I should be focusing on work and my clients, not remembering Henry leaning toward me, smelling like freshly chopped wood and pine trees.
And yet.
A holiday fling wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it?
Not forever. Not feelings. Not complicated.
Just a few days of letting my nether regions overrule my brain. Letting the man-shaped golden retriever take control for ten minutes, hell, maybe longer if I’m lucky, wouldn’t be so bad.
It would have to be top secret, of course. If he even wanted to.
I turned off the kitchen light with a sigh.
‘Get a grip,’ I muttered, resigning myself to the whole damned thing being in my head.
The hallway was steeped in darkness, the only light coming from the still-lit monstrous tree in the foyer. I rounded the corner and at the foot of the double stairwell, Henry stood, sleeves rolled up and leaning against the wall by the piano.
One of his feet was braced back against the panelling, those thickly muscled arms folded. He tipped his head as I froze.
The puppy-dog vibes had vanished, replaced by something darker and more thrilling in his face. Something almost devilish that had heat coiling deep inside me.
‘Everything alright?’ I asked, swallowing down a whole bundle of nerves.
Henry didn’t answer. He pushed off the wall and crossed the space, looking more like a tiger than a retriever. My breath hitched as the floor between us narrowed. I stepped backwards, my spine hitting the wall.
‘You’re doing rounds, checking lights. Doors. That sort of thing?’ he asked.
‘Just, uh, going to my, uh, bed.’
Come on, Amanda, you know how to bloody well speak.
Those icy blue eyes lifted to the space just above my head.
‘You know, for someone who hates Christmas, you’ve picked an interesting place to stop.’
