Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
JUNIPER
This is a disaster. A mess. A complete, flaming dumpster fire.
Not my event. The event is flawless. I’m the mess.
I’ve been planning the hell out of Books & Bubbly for over two months. Every detail, every local vendor, every perfect sparkling pour of prosecco. Pinterest-level cozy, small-town holiday magic. Except I didn’t account for one tiny problem…Liam.
Liam with his cozy sweaters and crooked smile and just enough scruff on his face to be fucking delectable.
And that’s just the way he looks. Never mind the fun we have together.
Laughing and people watching. Sampling hot cocoa with just enough peppermint schnapps to make our bellies warm and our limbs tingly.
Buying scented holiday soaps so we could sample them in the shower together.
That was right after he pressed me to the tile and made me come with his mouth.
And yet…we still haven’t had sex. My body is practically vibrating with want.
I want him. Badly. Desperately. Every inch of me wants to throw caution to the wind, to give in to what I know would be explosive and magnificent.
But I can’t. Not yet. Because if I do—if I let him in fully, if we cross that line—the denial ends.
And when the denial ends, there’s no going back.
I’d fall, head over heels, and the idea of him leaving afterward?
I might never recover. My heart would be a pile of glittering wreckage on the floor of this bookstore.
So instead, I’m hiding behind the register, rearranging bookmarks for the hundredth time, while my brain rewinds Liam Hargrove: Greatest Hits on loop. My hands are busy. My mind? Not so much.
I should be focused on the author signing line that’s wrapped halfway around the store, the champagne flutes clinking on every table, the raffle tickets.
Instead, I’m hyperaware of him. The way he smiles at Mrs. Bryan, the local librarian, like he’s been a regular here for years.
The way he remembers how to refill the drink cooler without asking, or the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
And worst of all?
I can still feel him. Last night’s heat, lingering just beneath my skin, the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he made me come so completely…it’s right there, threatening to unravel me.
Part of me hoped the last few nights with him would be enough. Enough to take the edge off. But it only sharpened it. Made the craving worse. Made me painfully aware of how much I’m holding back.
I think about the version of me last year that asked Liam to be my first and damn it, I was so na?ve. I had no idea what it would be like to have that man’s attention and now, I can’t imagine what it would be like not to.
It doesn’t help that he’s across the room right now in a soft black sweater that makes my palms itch. Sleeves pushed up just enough to show off those forearms that has my brain turning to mush.
“We’re out of prosecco.”
I blink away Liam and focus on what Charlotte is telling me.
“You’re kidding.”
She makes a face. “Unfortunately, no. But the good news is the event is a huge success.”
“Yeah, that’s great but we still have an hour left and some people haven’t even used their drink tickets.”
“Want me to run to the store?”
Before I can answer Charlotte, a low rumble of a voice cuts in—his voice.
“I’ve got it covered.”
I swear my heart does a somersault so dramatic it should get a standing ovation.
I look up and find Liam still leaning against the shelf, arms crossed, sleeves shoved up just so, watching me like he knows exactly how scrambled my brain is right now—and exactly why.
“You’ve got what covered?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level. Trying not to think about how that stupid vein on his forearm looks when he pours champagne. Or other, dirtier things.
He pushes off the shelf and strolls closer, just enough that I catch a whiff of the sweet vanilla scent drifting from the big tray of sugar cookies on the checkout counter. It mixes with his cologne and does ridiculous things to my focus. “More prosecco. I’ll handle it.”
“You have prosecco just lying around?” Charlotte asks, her brow lifting like she’s clocking something I’m missing.
Liam’s smile is all innocence, which is funny, because there’s not a single innocent thing about that man. He shrugs one shoulder, easy and unbothered. “Let’s just say I know where to find a bottle or two. Don’t worry about it, I’ll be right back.”
“Liam—” I start, because I want to ask. Where? How? But he’s already dropping a quick kiss on my temple—so casual, so unfair—and murmuring just for me, “Focus on your party, Firefly. I’ve got you.”
And just like that, he’s out the door into the cold, leaving me blinking at the bell above the entrance.
Charlotte nudges me with her elbow. “So, he just happens to have prosecco?”
I shove a stack of bookmarks at her to distract her suspicious grin. “Just go pass these out.”
She laughs but lets it drop. Thank god.
I watch through the frosted window as Liam starts down the sidewalk, his broad shoulders disappearing around the corner.
The man drives me insane in the best way possible. And apparently, he’s also my emergency prosecco supplier now.
I press a hand to my still-warm cheek, trying to pull myself together. One crisis averted. One infuriating, irresistible distraction multiplied.
And the worst part?
I think I love every second of it.
The last guest leaves with a satisfied sigh and a tote bag of signed books tucked under her arm. When the door swings shut behind her, the little bell above it jingles one final time before the shop settles into a hush.
Before I even glance up, I quickly open my laptop and type out a message to PourChoices.
JuniReads: The event was a success! We actually needed more prosecco at the end, but my once-annoying houseguest turned prosecco supplier saved the day.
I hit send and almost immediately, a reply pops up.
PourChoices: Knew it would be a success. And I have to say your houseguest seems to have been more helpful than expected. Glad he’s on your team.
I smirk at the screen, feeling a flicker of warmth at his words, and close the laptop. Somehow, it’s oddly satisfying to share the event triumph with him, even anonymously.
I glance up and freeze. Liam is leaning against a bookshelf across the store, phone in hand, sleeves pushed to his elbows, watching me with that look that turns my insides to syrup.
My chest tightens. He doesn’t move when I flick off the twinkle lights or start stacking stray champagne flutes by the register.
He just tracks me, like he’s memorizing every place my hands touch.
After the prosecco crisis was averted, Liam had made an exhausted Charlotte leave early, insisting he’d help me finish the event.
“You really didn’t have to help,” I say, tossing stray napkins into the trash.
“I know,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting. “But I like watching you work.”
I laugh, but my pulse flutters. Because I know exactly how he likes watching me.
When I reach for the extra garland still half-pinned to the side of the big window, he pushes off the shelf and crosses the room in three easy strides.
“Leave it,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle down the back of my arm. Goosebumps erupt under my sweater.
“I can finish—” I start, but his fingers circle my wrist, firm but careful.
“Juniper.” My name is a command and a promise all at once. He plucks the garland from my hand and tosses it on a nearby chair. Then he nudges me backward until my hips bump the base of the big rolling ladder attached to the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
“You’ve been up and down this thing all night,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to my mouth, then lower. “And all I could think about was you on it for me.”
Heat blooms low in my belly. “The ladder?”
His eyes flash, dark and hungry. “Mmhm.” He nods upward to the height of the ladder. “You, up there—spread for me.”
I bite my lip, my whole body buzzing. “Someone might see—”
He smirks, hands sliding under the hem of my sweater, thumbs grazing bare skin. “Store’s locked. Lights are off. It’s just you and me.”
And just like that, I’m gone. Every good intention I had about keeping things under control goes up in flames.
His hands settle on my waist, thumbs brushing the sliver of skin where my sweater’s ridden up. He leans in, nose brushing mine. “Climb for me, Firefly.”
My knees go weak, but I do it. Step by shaky step until I’m perched on the fifth rung, just high enough that his face is level with my belly. His palms glide up my thighs as he leans in and presses a slow, teasing kiss just above my knee.
His fingers slide under the hem of my skirt, then he hooks a finger in the side of my underwear, tugging the soft lace down just enough to expose me to the cool air, and his warm breath.
He drags the fabric down my thighs, slow enough to make me shiver. My underwear falls to my ankles, and he pulls them over my heeled booties, tossing them onto the shelf behind him like they’re nothing.
“Fuck, look at you,” he whispers. He presses his mouth to the inside of my knee, teeth scraping just enough to make my hips jerk forward. “Already wet for me.”
I grip the ladder’s wooden rails tighter when his broad shoulders nudge between my thighs, spreading me open. He kisses up, up, up. A firm trail of heat that makes me squirm against the rung.
“Hold on for me, baby,” he breathes against my skin. His hands slide under my thighs, palms bracing my hips as he lifts me just enough to tilt me forward. “I’m going to make a mess of you right here.”
Then, his mouth is on me. Tongue stroking slow and firm. Teasing me with circles that make my vision blur.
I gasp, my back arching, forehead bumping the ladder. “Liam—”
He groans, low and filthy, like my voice alone does something to him. “Let me hear you come apart, Firefly. Every little sound.”
He flicks his tongue deeper, and my knuckles go white on the ladder rail. He’s relentless. Slow, then greedy, then slow again until my thighs tremble and I can’t help the needy moan that slips out. He chuckles against me, the vibration sending sparks up my spine.
“You taste like heaven,” he rasps, tongue flicking, then flattening to lap me open again. “And when I fuck you for real, baby—” His voice drops even lower, wicked and reverent. “You’re going to soak my cock just like this.”
I bite my lip, the ladder rattling under my grip as I chase the heat spiraling tight in my belly. He drags it out, building me higher, letting me hover on the edge until my hips buck forward and he groans like he loves how desperate I am for him.
A moment later, I cry out, my forehead pressed to my arm, the ladder squeaking under my shaking thighs. He doesn’t stop until I’m breathless, sagging against the rungs, his mouth still tasting every last bit of me.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are slick, his eyes dark and hungry as he smirks up at me. He presses one more kiss to the inside of my thigh, then stands, crowding me against the ladder, kissing me deep so I taste myself on his tongue.
“Next time,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing mine, “I’m taking you right here. Bent over these shelves. Until you forget your own damn name.”
And I believe him, because the way he’s looking at me? I want to forget everything that isn’t him.