A world-class, Olympic-level idiot who apparently solves her problems by making out with her boss under mistletoe she hung on purpose. Great life choices, Bea. Really stellar decision-making.
I pull out my phone. The social media posts—right. I have a job to do.
I pull up the videos we filmed this morning—River demonstrating light installation, looking unfairly competent and attractive while explaining electrical safety. The caption I wrote hours ago, before mistletoe and kissing and everything going sideways:Stay safe out there,
Honeyridge Falls! Your neighborhood hardware guy's got you covered.
My finger hovers over the post button.
Professional. I can be professional. Even if my lips are still swollen and I can still feel his hands on my hips and my entire world just tilted off its axis.
I hit post.
There. Done. Like a normal person with a normal job who didn't just make out with her boss under mistletoe she hung specifically to make this happen.
I'm still staring at my phone when a voice cuts through the cold air.
"You okay?"
I jolt, nearly dropping my phone.
Grayson.
He's leaning against the post office wall, arms crossed, and the sight of him hits me like a physical blow. Dark coat. Darker stare. That ink-and-leather scent cutting through the December air sharp enough to make my hindbrain sit up and pay attention.
My hips tingle with the phantom pressure of his hands. Where he held me, steady and firm, while his forehead pressed to mine in that alley.
Fuck.
"I'm fine." The words come out automatic. Defensive. My hand moves unconsciously to my hip—right where he?—
His eyes track the movement. Something flickers across his face. Heat, maybe. Or satisfaction that I'm thinking about it too.
"You don't look fine." He pushes off the wall. Moves closer with that controlled intensity that made me want to climb him like a tree. "You look like you're about to run."
My pulse kicks up. "I'm just walking. Clearing my head."
"From what?" His voice is lower than I remember. Rougher.
From you. From River. From the fact that I can still taste one alpha while standing in front of another who had me pressed against a wall with his hand in my hair.
The air between us feels heavy. Loaded with everything we didn't do in that alley—everything wealmostdid. The countdown. The way he stopped himself even though I was begging him not to. His mouth on my neck. My hands fisted in his shirt.
We haven't talked since the Tree Lighting. Since he counted down five-four-three-two-one and gave me a choice to leave. Since I didn't take it. Since he told me he wanted me but not like that, not rushed where anyone could see.
Three days, and I can still feel the brick wall at my back and his body pinning me there.
"I should—" I gesture vaguely down the street. "I was going to grab something at Millie's. Clear my head."
"Meeting someone?" His eyes hold mine.
"No." The word comes out too fast.
His jaw tightens slightly. "Saw you leave Brooks Hardware looking... wrecked."
Great. So he watched me stumble out of River's store looking thoroughly debauched. Perfect.
And of course his tattoo shop has a clear view. The town's not that big—everyone sees everything.
