She lifts her chin. “Are you volunteering for that position, Calder?”
My pulse spikes. She’s teasing. But she’s not. She never is, not really.
“Lucy,” I say, voice low, “don’t start something you don’t want finished.”
Her breath hitches. She opens her mouth — no idea what’s about to come out — and then claps it shut again.
I loosen my grip on her waist — slow enough for her to feel every second of contact before I let go. We finish loading and unloading supplies, but nothing feels the same. Something snapped. Something tightened between us. She tries to pretend it didn’t happen and does a terrible job.
“So…” she says, brushing hair from her face, “you’re not as grumpy as you pretend.”
I turn to her. Slowly. “Who told you that?”
“No one.” She bites her bottom lip — unconsciously, I think, though it destroys every ounce of restraint I have left. “I mean, you pretend to be this big, bad grump, but sometimes… sometimes you’re just… not.”
“That’s extremely descriptive.”
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Do I?
“Maybe,” she says softly, “you use the grumpiness to hide the fact that you’re actually incredibly nice.”
“Lucy.”
“And sweet.”
“Lucy.”
“And heroic.”
“Lucy.” My voice drops into a warning growl she absolutely ignores.
Her smile turns mischievous. “And maybe you pretend to hate holidays because deep down you?—”
I grab her wrist. Her breath catches like I’ve cut off the air. I step in close. Her back hits the side of her SUV. My body shadows hers. I don’t touch her except for the hand around her wrist, but it’s enough. It’s too much.
“Don’t,” I murmur, “finish that sentence.”
She sucks in a breath. “Why?”
“Because I’m trying to be decent.”
“Are you?”
“Barely.”
Her pulse races beneath my fingers. Her eyes flick to my mouth, then away, then back again.
I should release her.
I don’t.
I lower my head, enough that my breath brushes her cheek. “You think you know what I am,” I say, voice rough. “Grumpy. Guarded. Whatever other Christmas-themed labels you want to slap on me.”
“I know what I see,” she whispers.
My grip tightens — not enough to hurt. Just enough that she feels it.
