“All right, then.” He shifts against the doorframe, like he’s settling in for the long haul, nearly filling it in the process. “What did I watch Sunday?”
“Sunday?” I consider for a few seconds. “Trick question.” I feel a thrill of triumph as I step closer. “You weren’thereSunday.”
“Hm,” is his only response and, for reasons I can’t explain, it infuriates me, but it also makes me pay closer attention to that mouth and, let me tell you about the man’s mouth. It’s sort of lush when he’s not sneering. And sort of pouty in a way that doesn’t go with the rest of him. At all. It doesn’t curve up, but when he’s not actively being hateful, it’s maybe…sweet-looking? Almost. “Last week?”
“The Thing.” I’m enjoying the way his irritation grows with every correct answer I throw out. “Oh,Inception, too. That’s a good one. Before then, let’s see.” I tick them off on my fingers as I go. “Die Hard.Speed! One and two, which is a questionable choice. One’s a classic. Without Keanu, Two is… You know what? I could go on, but I’ve got better things to do.” Like shower, get dressed, go to work, serve chocolates to delightful little elderly men who like the way I laugh.
“Good.” He bends until his face is almost level with mine and his voice comes out low and menacing. “Do them quietly.”
Or what?I just barely refrain from asking. He’s close enough that I feel the heat from his breath, the tension in his half-clothed body. The cold air coming up the stairs has turned my nipples into two sharp points that he’d definitely notice if he looked down.
My breathing’s shaky, my body buzzing from this confrontation like I’ve run up all six flights—or lugged my suitcase up them, the way I did that first day. When the jerk somehow forgot to mention that there was a perfectly good—if tiny—elevator right there for me to use.
Okay, good is an exaggeration, but at least the thing works. Most of the time. Well, occasionally.
Any normal person would’ve stopped me and pointed it out. But not Le Jerk. Oh, no, he’s way too brooding and angry for that. He’s the kind of misogynistic jackass who probably feeds on the blood of puppies, cancels Christmas for kids, and pipes the sounds of crying babies into his earbuds to get to sleep at night. Watching a woman struggle up half a dozen floors with a five-ton suitcase is probably just a mise en bouche.
I mean, what kind of assface stomps upstairs at 5 a.m. on Christmas Eve to complain about someone’s laugh, for God’s sake? I drag in a deep breath, hating how his warm, sleepy smell curls low in my belly. “You know what you are?”
His gaze skates down—to my lips? To my breasts?—and I swear he grows an extra inch or two. “What am I?”
“Well, it’s…” I pretend to look at a watch that doesn’t exist. “Oh, look, the day before Christmas and you’re up here, the sad, lonely old guy with—”
“Old?”
Ignoring him, I carry on, my pulse quickening as I go. “—nothing better to do than harass your neighbor. So I guess that makes you just like Ebeneezer Scrooge, doesn’t it?”
His face goes dark and thunderous as he bends closer, bringing us, for a weird, breathless second, dangerously close to kissing distance. Suddenly, all that cold, angry animosity heats the air between us and I wonder, has this all just been foreplay? Has every second of this exchange, from the moment he stomped up here in nothing but those loose, low-slung joggers led to this moment? Is this some messed-up, Grinchy, British version of first base?
I swear he’s as nervous or aware or excited as I am when he tilts his head and starts to shift that last inch, just as I press up to my tiptoes to meet him, closer, closer, until—
“Hé ho!” We jump apart. “Putain, ca va, oui!” someone yells from a few floors down. It’s Madame Christen, the elderly woman on floor two, with the tiny dog and the one shoe taller than the other. She complains constantly. “On essaye de dormir là,” she shrieks, which I guess I can’t blame her for, given that it is very early on Christmas Eve and peopleshouldbe able to sleep in.
Another door opens and a man’s voice calls out, with humor, rather than anger, “Ouais! Il y a des hôtels pour ça.” It takes me a second to realize it’s the French equivalent of someone shouting,Get a room!
I gasp and the grump steps back onto the landing, his eyes wide and shocked for a split second before his features settle into his usual resting jerk face.
“Just…keep it down.” He gives me a final blue-eyed glare and spins toward the stairs.
Being my usual mature self, I search for something to say before he’s gone, open my mouth and hiss, “No,youkeep it down.”
I’m good at comebacks like that.
CHAPTERTWO
Colin
Owning a pub in the center of Paris isn’t quite the dream it’s cracked up to be. It’s exhausting and sometimes depressing and often confrontational. Don’t get me wrong—I like my punters, mostly. But I’ll admit there are times when being nice to people who come in and order a coffee and water and sit there all night, taking up table space and spending absolutely nothing, is a challenge.
“All right, Stevie, ready for another?” I ask one of my regulars in English, eyeing his empty pint glass.
“Nah, best be off. The mister made a roast and veg. We’ve got his parents coming in for the day.”
I grunt in response, which usually keeps people from going on too long.
“His dad’s a wanker.” Sadly, Stevie ignores my nonverbal signals. “But I’ve got to be there or he’ll have my balls.”
I give another grunt, relieved as always that I’ve got no one to answer to, no one to hurry home for. No pressure to perform or smile or be nice on a day like today.
