She parts those sweet, sultry lips. Her tongue probes mine in a way that makes me want to carry her through to the bedroom and never leave. It takes every ounce of willpower to tear my mouth from hers, but I do it, even as every single cell of my body cries out in protest.
My thumb roams over her perfect cupid’s bow, tracing the spot my lips just left. I know little more about her than I did a week ago. ‘Do you have a last name?’
‘I do.’ Her shoulders stiffen and the mood changes instantly.
‘But you’re not going to tell me?’ She trusts me with her body, but not with her identity. Someone must have really done a number on her.
Until she’s ready to open up, I won’t push her. I could check her contract, of course, but it seems like a breach of trust when she’s not ready to tell me herself.
And she’s not the only one with secrets.
I attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Wait - is it Rumpelstiltskin? Because you are weaving some seriously solid gold magic in my trousers right now.’
‘Last time I checked, surnames aren’t mandatory details for “friends with benefits” slash “fuck buddies”. I’d hate for you to google me and discover every embarrassing image of me online,’ she jokes, but her insecurities radiate from her like a beacon.
‘Hello? Google me and you’ll see a tonne of embarrassing images. Every dodgy outfit I’ve ever worn. Every questionable date I’ve ever been on.’
Ignoring me, she turns her attention to setting the table, pulling cutlery from drawers. I lift down two wine glasses and open a bottle of Malbec, pouring two generous glasses while she plates up the dinner.
‘I lost track of time painting again. I meant to do an hour, then all of a sudden two pass and my stomach is rumbling like my throat’s been cut.’ Holly offers the subtlest shake of her head, flicking her glossy hair from her shoulders. It’s one of her many mannerisms I’ve come to love.
‘What inspires you so much that you get so engrossed?’
‘That would be telling.’ So secretive all the time. This woman might be the death of me. She places two white square plates with spaghetti drowning in rich sauce on the table.
I pull out a chair opposite her. This is the first time she’s cooked for me. The first time we’ll be sitting at a table together. Surprisingly, I like it.
I bring my fork to my mouth, savouring every delicious mouthful. ‘Want to go out tonight?’
Holly’s eyes widen. ‘But you don’t want to be seen in public, and I definitely don’t want to be seen with you…’
‘Wow. Way to break a man’s heart.’ My palms fly to my sternum in mock horror. ‘Film stars have feelings too, you know.’ Well, the ones who aren’t emotionally stunted do.
‘I didn’t mean it like that! Nate, I’m sorry.’ Her fingers reach across the table and brush over mine. ‘It didn’t occur to me you might want to go out. We didn’t agree to date.’
‘I wasn’t asking you on a date as such, though I suppose that’s what it is, because I will kiss you, Holly.’ I study her thoughtfully. ‘But don’t freak out. I’m only here for a few more weeks. You said the same. I thought, given what you said about not getting to see any Christmas lights being lit, that you might like to go to the square to see Ballybowen’s official switching on.’
Something flickers across her features. A spark of longing. Her eyes light up like a child’s in a sweet shop. I might not know a lot about her, but she definitely has a Christmas kink.
‘It’ll be pretty. We might even find some mulled wine.’ Why am I trying to encourage her to go out with me? I should just take her to bed and be done with it, but for some inexplicable reason, Iwantto see the lights with her. Want to see her face light up like it did when I gave her that damned Advent calendar.
Why has no one ever spoilt her before? And why is she hiding? The questions roll round my mind on a never-ending conveyor belt.
‘But won’t people recognise us?’ She bites her lower lip. ‘You, I mean. Won’t it blow your cover?’
‘It’s dark outside. No one is looking for either of us here. Are they?’
Who is she running from?
An abusive ex?
Her overbearing family?
Three charming but illegitimate children?
A trace of uncertainty lingers on her face. ‘I assumed Christmas was cancelled this year, for me at least,’ she confesses in a tone that seeps right into my skin and into my veins. ‘But I’d love to see the lights.’
‘Christmas isn’t cancelled, sweetheart. But we need to leave in ten if we’re going to make it in time.’
