I exhale hard, rub a hand over my face, and drop my head back against the seat. Because the truth is, I’m already too far gone. And no amount of telling myself to stay away is going to change the fact that I want her anyway.
CHAPTER 12
Hailey
The problem with romantic Christmas movies is that they trick your nervous system into thinking everything is going to work out because it’s wrapped in bows and Tiffany blue wrapping paper.
Snow is falling in high-def on my TV, some perfectly blow-dried heroine is about to reconcile with the lumberjack mayor, and I am… half-asleep on my couch in a hoodie and fuzzy socks, surrounded by leftover take-out containers and the scent of my favorite seasonal evergreen candle.
I blink slowly, tipping my head back against the cushion. I’m just starting to drift when the knock comes. My eyes fly open and I stare off, trying to figure out if the sound came from the movie or if someone is actually at my door.
Then another loud, hard, sharp knock vibrates the door. My eyes fly open even wider and my heart skids to what feels like a complete stop. Nobody just shows up at eleven-something at night unless it’s bad and nobody even knows me in this city.
Oh God, what if there was an accident back home and it’s the cops coming to tell me my entire family died!
I shove the blanket off, stumble to the door, and peek through the peephole. “Wait, that’s not…” I rub my eyes andlook again. No, it very much is him. Cole. My stomach does an Olympic-level flip.
He’s placed one hand on either side of my doorframe like he needed to stop himself from pacing. His head is hanging down slightly between his shoulder blades. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for whatever he’s about to say, and open the door.
“I might be a lot of things,” he says without even a hello, voice low and rough, “and I am an asshole through and through. I’ll give you that, but I’m not a fucking cheater.”
I just… blink. “Okay,” I say, because what else do you say to that at eleven thirty at night in your Rudolph socks?
He exhales like he’s been holding it since the market, shouldering past me gently and nudging the door shut with his boot. I let him, because honestly? I’m too stunned to do anything else.
He paces once in my tiny living room, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “That woman at the coffee shop? Mercedes.” He looks at me, eyes spearing mine. “She’s my project manager. Her husband, Eli, works for me. He’s a damn good friend and I would never disrespect him like that. She and I were having a meeting, and she wanted to pick my brain about a watch she has her eye on for Eli for Christmas.”
The words land heavy and fast as I try to process it all. “Oh.” Suddenly, I feel like a complete ass for the way I behaved earlier tonight.
“Yeah. ‘Oh.’” His mouth ticks, humorless.
I fold my arms over my chest, mostly because I’m braless. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because it pissed me off that you’d think I’d do that,” he snaps, then reins it in, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And because—” He steps in closer. “Because it mattered to you.”
My laugh comes out thin. “Actually, it doesn’t matter to me who you kiss or fuck, Cole. You made it pretty clear you didn’t want it to be me.”
“I lied,” he says, lunging toward me like a wild animal that’s finally caught its prey. “I’ve been lying since the second you opened that damn apartment door.”
My pulse roars in my ears. I tip my head up to him. “Then what do you want?”
He doesn’t answer with words.
He just grabs me, his big hands at my waist, pulling me into that hard body like he’s been starving for it. Then his mouth crashes down on mine and it’s nothing like the elevator.
It’s hotter and sexier and so damn hungry it feels like this man is pouring his soul into me. It’s him kissing me like he came all the way over here at midnight in the snow just to do this.
His mouth devours mine one slow, languid kiss at a time. His hands slide up my sides, rough and desperate, and I can’t decide if I want to shove him away or pull him closer.
“Cole,” I whisper against his lips, but it comes out more like a plea.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, breathing hard. “I don’t care if you believe a damn word I say.” His voice is gravel and regret. “But believe this, I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I blink up at him, trying to get air back into my lungs. “You can’t just show up here, say that, and expect me to?—”
He closes the distance again, his hands finding the hem of my hoodie, thumbs brushing the sliver of bare skin at my waist. “Expect you to what?” His tone is low, coaxing, dangerous. “Forgive me? Hate me? Let me touch you?”
My breath stutters. “All of the above.”
