“Mine? What is it? A Grinch?”
“Noooo,silly.” She holds up a glass circle with a photo inside—a picture of me at the gun range. I didn’t even know someone took that shot.
For a beat, I’m stuck inside my own head. The team. My friends. Someone cared enough to make this. And I’m about to fuck everything up if I pursue something with my buddy’s very off-limits sister.
“The guys welcomed me back after I disappeared inside my grief,” I say quietly. “Agile’s good like that.”
She knows my past. At least the broad strokes. That my girlfriend died. And the air between us shifts to heavy and sincere.
She closes her hand around the ornament, nodding. “They make me feel so loved. Reconnecting with my brother has been incredible, but the way everyone here pulled me in… it feels different. Really good.”
“I know. Same here.”
She looks up. “Everyone has an ornament in this box. Me included.”
“We should put them up later.”
She nods and sets mine back into the tissue paper gently. She handles it with such care that something sharp catches at the base of my throat.
I pivot away, needing motion. Needing distance from the energy rising between us.
“Come on,” I say, heading toward the kitchen. “Follow me. I know what you need.”
And it’s not for me to sink my teeth into that perfect ass.
Goddamn those jeans.
I’d bite down on my knuckle if I weren’t clenching my phone hard enough to crack the screen.
The kitchen is a safe territory. Somewhere to put all this restless, burning energy. “Hot beverage? They stocked this like a winter bunker.”
“Hot cocoa sounds perfect,” she says, her voice hinting at humor. “Since I didn’t get to finish the one at the store before you came flying in like a knight on a shiny horse.”
“That’s some description,” I reply. “But I’m no knight.”
“I’ve never been rescued in a snowstorm before.”
“Well,” I say, muscles along my spine tightening, “I’d like to think you’ll never have to be rescued again.”
The idea of her being stranded somewhere cold, scared.Nope. Not happening. My gut recoils. My protective instincts heading off the chart.
I don’t know how I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again, but I will.
“Cheesecake. Oh my God, this must be the one you mentioned. I can see why you already dove in.
“It’s ours to enjoy,” I say, and nearly groan at that word—ours.
“This place is so nice. I couldn’t believe it the first time I came,” she says as a stool scrapes across the floor.
The kitchen is a fortress—two six-burner cooktops, four ovens, a ridiculous island the boss installed. I start gathering supplies just to keep my hands busy and my eyes away from her.
“It’s stocked like Martha Stewart planned a siege,” I mutter with my head ducked to look in a cabinet.
“You know Martha Stewart?” she teases. “Color me shocked.”
“Read about her in a magazine on some base in the middle of nowhere.”
She laughs. “I can’t picture you reading her cooking magazine.”
