Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
CELESTE
Pacing by the tree, I check the clock for the third time in five minutes. With my hot water fixed—thanks to Quinton’s endless source of contacts—I’m showered, fed, and waiting on my Christmas stylist like I’m on hold for a damn lung transplant.
My gut flips, sending wild butterflies throughout my stomach.
Shit.
I wring my hands as I turn back and stalk around the room, righting the few trinkets and pieces of decor this old house has had since, well, forever. I fluff up the aged curtains, tying them back with the decorative white ropes that hang from small gold hooks by the window frame.
I tug at the fabric when it refuses to budge along the curtain rod.
Dust and crumbling drywall fall from above. With a groan, the rod plummets to the floor. I jump back, barely missing a curtain rod-induced concussion.
“Oh shit!”
So much for my Christmas decorating attempts.
The front door rattles under a heavy knock.
Great, just great. The living room is a mess . . .
Shaking my head, I walk to the door and open it to find Maisey standing in front of her father, who is currently straining to hold up a giant box. Said box has tinsel spewing from it. A split down one corner reveals glittering baubles.
“What is all this?” I say, opening the door and stepping aside.
Quinton walks into the living room. He stops short when he spies the tree and the fallen curtain rod, loosing a low chuckle. “Damn, CC. You really do need our help.”
“Step aside, Daddy.” Maise looks up at him so seriously. “I got this.”
He drops the box in the center of the room and salutes his daughter before coming to stand beside me. “You sure you know what you signed up for?”
“Yes? No . . .”
“Hank watching the game?”
“Yep. In the TV room.”
He pats me on the shoulder like some long-lost bud. “Godspeed, baby.”
His face is all empathy that twists to amusement as he wanders down the hallway.
Ass.
And . . . now that’s the only place my gaze wants to be. His perfect, jean-clad ass saunters away from me like he knows I’m watching. The balls on this guy. I chuckle and he glances over his shoulder. This time, it’s him who hesitates by the door.
His focus is trained on me as his throat bobs.
Dammit.
For a heartbeat I forget he’s a single dad, the annoying guy next door, and a constant reminder of how incapable I am as a grown-ass adult. And I just . . . see him.
My chest plummets as the need to be anywhere but out of his orbit overwhelms m—
Shit, no.
Not happening, Celeste.
We are not falling for the flannel-clad contractor next door. No matter how stupidly handsome, kind, and considerate he is.
Not doing it.
My life is complicated enough.
“This all has to go.” Maisey’s words snap me from the trance I’m in.
Quinton’s head tilts back just a little as he slaps a hand to the doorframe and disappears into the TV room.
I turn back to find Maisey ripping the few strings of tinsel and handful of ancient decorations from the tree.
“Those are the only things I had.”
“I know. That’s why I got Daddy to bring you some more. This tree is just sad.”
I chuckle and nod. She is totally right.
“You know what? We need some music, sweetheart.”
“Ooh yes! Something fun.”
Maisey’s head disappears into the oversized box as I slide my phone from my pocket and tap the screen to find Christmas music.
When I scroll through all the tunes, I come across “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”. Perfect.
Turning the volume up, I race to the kitchen and find the biggest metal mixing bowl I can, setting my phone in it to amplify the sound.
I rest it on the sofa, and we get to work.
Dancing as we decorate, I follow the very detailed instructions from my holiday stylist until not only the tree is a spectacle in itself, but the room is absolutely spectacular, too.
“Last thing,” Maisey says, holding out a large light-up star to me. “You may do the honors.”
“Thanks, Maise.”
She beams at me. And I place the star on the very top.
“Wait!” Maisey says, hitting the light switch for the living room lights. “Daddy!”
Quick, heavy steps close in a heartbeat later, and she turns back to me with a double thumbs up.
I flick the small toggle on the star’s battery box, and the entire room lights up under its golden glow.
But when I turn back, the only person left in the living room with me is Quinton.
Ah, she totally set us up . . .
Little trickster.
“Well played, kiddo,” Quinton murmurs, the quiet words sending something visceral through me, his eyes burning into mine.
“Ta-da,” I say with strained enthusiasm, holding my arms out toward the impressive tree. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
But Quinton’s eyes don’t stray from my face to the tree, not for a second as he closes the distance between us. “Beautiful, stunning, thoughtful . . . selfless.”
He’s so close, every sense I own is infiltrated by him.
“We still talking about the tree?” I whisper.
He shakes his head as his palms collect my jaw, tilting my face up to his. “Nope.”
He caresses my face, his thumbs trailing over my cheekbones and brushing over my mouth before snagging on my bottom lip. “I haven’t stopped thinking about the last time you let me kiss you, Celeste.”
I’m barely huffing out viable breaths, let alone forming words, and my eyes flutter shut. “Is this a good idea? What about Maise?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. But I can’t see this turning out any other way.”
“And what way is that?” I narrow my eyes playfully, curling my fingers around his hands still holding my face.
“I would rather show you than the—”
“Oh, kiss her already, Daddy!”
I huff a surprised sound as Quinton groans, his forehead pressing to mine.
“You heard the little lady,” he rasps.
“I did.” I press up on my toes and drag his mouth down to mine.
His hands tilt my head a little further and he claims my mouth the way he did the first time. Not making him wait this time, I open and he’s everywhere. Hands, tongue, lips . . .
My skin is electrified where his hands grip my face. Each choppy breath sends my head higher and higher as my center melts, and I can’t get close enough.
His body presses against mine. Heat pools low in my belly. My hands grip his hair like a lifeline, and I . . . can’t breathe . . .
Breaking away, I rasp, “Quin—”
He holds me steady, his grip firm around my biceps as I try like hell to ground myself. Unlike last time, I have no intention of running away. For the first time in my life, I am desperate for something to stick. If not forever, for as long as it is good.
“Must be some tree.” My father’s voice has us turn toward him in unison.
Maisey stands by him, and they high five like they planned this all along.
But I know that’s impossible. With a spotty memory, Dad’s not likely to be able to do anything of the sort.
But his single moment of clarity around what’s happening here? I’ll take it.
“How was the game, Hank?” I ask.
“Ah, rubbish. We lost, again.” He waves a hand and wanders down the hall.
Well, there you go. Two moments of clarity. Maise is in our space the second Dad’s gone. “So now can you kiss and tell?” She looks up at Quinton.
He simply chuckles, sweeping her up into his arms. “Hmm, looks like it’s your bedtime.”
“Oh no, I was helping,” she whines.
“Yes, you were. But every girl needs their beauty sleep.”
“Even CC?”
Quinton adjusts her on his hip. “Even CC.”
She slaps his arm. “Daddy, don’t say that. She’ll think you don’t like her.”
The look of utter horror on her face almost has me doubled over. But I restrain myself and add, “I would love to go to bed early, Maise. We can build snowmen tomorrow if we get enough sleep, just us girls.”
“Really?!”
“Sure thing.”
“Yes!” She pumps a fist into the air. “Hear that, Daddy? You’re not invited.”
He narrows his eyes at her playfully. “If you say so, kiddo.”
Snow drifts from the sky as if it’s totally on board with our snowman building plans. Of course it is.
Maise sits at the kitchen counter as I pour out hot cocoa to warm ourselves with before we brave the frosty outdoors. The front door slams, and I assume it’s Quinton.
Heavy footfalls tell me my assumption was spot-on. He rounds the doorway and crosses the checkered tile to drop onto a stool by his daughter.
“You forgot your beanie, Maise.”
Tugging it over her head, he gives me the brightest smile as the beanie covers her eyes.
She’s batting his hands away a second later, and I return the smile before Maisey’s eyes emerge from the woolen shroud.
“Morning, Celeste,” Quinton rasps.
I pull out an extra cup and slide two full mugs over the counter before pouring my own. The cupboard overhead has marshmallows and powdered sugar, so I grab them, and we douse our drinks in the sugary nonsense.
“Thought I heard someone come in,” Dad says, sliding onto a stool on the other side of Maisey.
Gang’s all here.
Maisey turns to my father. “We’re building a snowman. Did you want to help?”
“Sounds like fun, little miss. Count me in.” His hands come to rest on the counter with a slight tremble. An early warning sign of a not-so-great day. Maybe some sunshine will help.
“You know what, I think that’s a great idea.” I pass Dad a mug of hot cocoa.
“Thanks, love.” He takes a sip, wincing when the liquid burns.
Shit.
“Careful, Hank. It might need more milk.”
He slides it back over and I add a little extra to cool it down.
Maisey looks sheepish. “But I guess it’s not just us girls, then.”
“One more couldn’t hurt, could it?” I ask her.
“Suppose not.” She swirls a finger in her drink, bumping the marshmallows against the side of the mug.
Dad slides his mug back to me, shaking his head. “Come on, young lass. Let’s get started.”
He stands and brushes down his clothes. I take a beat to check he’s warm enough before adding, “Don’t forget your coats.”
Dad simply nods, and Maisey takes his hand as they walk into the hall. Maisey doesn’t give him a second before she’s quizzing his snowman-making skills in great detail.
“You think he’ll have a good day?” Quinton asks.
“Not sure. He has a bit of a tremor. Hopefully some fresh air will help.”
It takes me a moment to realize what he’s really asking—is Maisey safe with my father today? And it’s a valid question with a valid reason behind it.
“They should be okay for a few minutes. Did you have something in mind?”
He’s off the stool and crowding me against the counter in the space of a heartbeat. In a tangle of sandalwood and spice, his hands wrap around my neck and weave into my hair.
“You could say that,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
My brain is short-circuiting, and I know I have something to tide us over for a little while, but I can’t think straight with his hands on me. I—
“Camera . . . app . . .” I squeak as he nips my neck.
“Mhmmm, very useful. You want to record this?”
“What? No!”
He chuckles and puts a little space between us.
“On my phone. The security app has the front and back of the house on it. So if I need to duck out, I can keep an eye on Dad. Since he has a history of running away.”
“So what you’re saying is that we can fool around for a little while and they will be okay outside?” One brow arches, the intensity of his gaze sending hot flushes through my body.
“Well, I’m not saying we can’t . . .”
“How very cryptic, Celeste.”
“Quinton.”
“You know, you don’t have to use every syllable in my name every damn time.”
I tilt my head. He wants me to—
“Just Quin is fine, baby.”
“Oh,” I breathe as he eliminates the space between us.
“That okay with you?”
“Uh-huh.”
It’s all I can do to nod when his hands cup my face, and he claims my mouth. When he wants in, I open, melting against the marble countertop.
I’m on fire, and nowhere near close enough.
My clothes feel like sandpaper on my skin. Heat pools low in my belly, as his hand moves down my neck. My own are planted on his heaving chest. Every breath he takes rubs my now-hard peaks in the most torturous way. But he breaks away.
“No, please don’t stop,” I gasp.
“Fuck, I don’t ever want to do that . . . But you have far too many layers on.”
“It’s cold.”
He chuckles, leaning in close again. “I can think of a few ways to warm you up.”
Oh god.
I nip his jaw. “Then what are you waiting for?”
A warm hand slips under my sweater and shirt, caressing my belly with his knuckles. “Fuck, you are so soft. I can only imagine how incredible the rest of you is.”
“Only one way to find out, Quin.”
We both glance at my phone, checking the video footage. Maise and Dad are rounding up haphazard piles of snow. And they don’t have anywhere enough for one snowman, let alone two. We have heaps of time.
“Plenty of time,” Quin rasps. “How do want me to use it, CC?”
“Wisely?” I ask, screwing my face up.
He grumbles something before sliding his hands further up my belly. When his fingers meet my bra, they skirt the hard underwire before slipping underneath.
His touch is ethereal.
Sparks scatter along my skin over every inch his fingertips travel. And I’m dying to kiss him. Taste him. Close the space between us even further. “Quin, please.”
“This kitchen door lock?” His voice is low and gravelly.
I nod. “Marie used to lock us out when she was cooking Sunday roasts years ago.”
He strides to the door and closes it, locking it tight.