Chapter 15
His hands find my hips through my coat and pull me closer before sliding up to my waist. The kiss is perfectly chaste at first—just the gentle press of our mouths.
Then his hand cups my chin, his thumb parts my lips.
He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his tongue dipping into my mouth, teeth tugging at my bottom lip.
He tastes like hot chocolate and peppermint. A helpless groan rumbles out of me.
He pulls back, panting. “Is this okay?” he asks, resting his forehead against mine.
I bury my hands in his hair and taste him again. It’s his turn to moan, and the sound does something to me. My body wakes up—suddenly, painfully aware of the last few celibate years. Heat rushes to my most sensitive places. All at once, I’m on fire. The hot, wet slide of our lips isn’t enough.
All I can think about is the naked, sweaty slide of our hips.
“Get a room!” someone shouts in the distance.
Oh my God, I am in public.
I break the kiss and search for the heckler. There he is—my teen Christmas-plant arch-nemesis—waggling his brows as he lugs fresh cider jugs from the main building.
On instinct, I flip him off. He sticks out his tongue and speed-walks away. Pretty sure “taunting guests” isn’t in the employee handbook, but I did bruise his ego with my superior knowledge of winter flora.
Eben glances down, amused. I can feel my face blazing—mortified by my inability to keep it in my pants, even in public. He laughs softly and smooths the back of his hand down my cheek.
“Come on.” He laces our fingers. “Let’s keep walking.”
Ah, but the beast is awake.
I drift through the rest of the gardens in a daze.
Heart racing. All I can think about is jumping this poor guy’s bones.
We pass a path of hanging Chinese lanterns.
Eben says something about koi fish hibernating in winter, and I don’t hear a word.
I just stare vacantly at the various shades of orange under the ice.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs.
No. Absolutely not. I am a sex bomb, ready to explode.
“Hmmm?” is all I manage. My eyes can’t stop drifting to Eben’s mouth.
He grins, catching on, and dips to my ear. “You want to go?”
“Mmhmm,” I nod. Heat flashes in his eyes. He squeezes my hand and steers us toward the exit. We bypass the gift shop (sacrilege for me, but hormones are driving). In the lot, his truck lights blink. It feels a mile away, even though it isn’t.
He opens the door, and I start to jump up, but his hands grip my hips and lift me into the seat, pushing my coat higher as he steps between my legs.
His lips meet mine in a delicious slide.
There’s that mint-chocolate scent again, and I realize that sometime between his hot chocolate and our makeout session, he slipped a mint.
When he finally pulls back, I’m clinging to the lapels of his jacket for dear life.
“Hi,” he says, wicked grin, eyes searching. “This better?”
“Yes,” I say, breathless from our near-sprint to the car. A chorus of kid-squeals ricochets nearby—we’re still in public and I’m over it. “Can we go somewhere?”
“Your place or mine?” he whispers against my lips.
I picture the onslaught of Christmas he’ll face at mine—garland, nutcrackers, trees on trees. My apartment looks like Buddy the Elf dropped acid, decided my living room was the North Pole, and went feral.
“Yours,” I say, blushing.
Eben drives at least ten miles over the speed limit back to Cherryville. He hardly looks at me, just white knuckles the steering wheel and steps on the gas.
I realize I have no idea where he lives, but when he finally slows on the main road to turn, I spot the stone subdivision sign: Cherrywood Estates.
One eyebrow twitches. These properties were in high demand when I was a kid: wooded paths, scenic little bridges over babbling brooks, and homes ranging from charming to full-on mansions.
We wind through the dark streets until he rounds a bend and pulls into the driveway of a half-stone, half-brick storybook cottage. I hop out and follow Eben to the double doors (not a wreath in sight).
Inside, I’m assaulted by an ultra-frilly, floral living room straight out of a ‘90s sitcom. I wasn’t expecting Eben to have old-lady taste in décor, but here’s hoping he just recently inherited this house from an aunt or a… Golden Girl.
“Can I take your coat?” he asks, shrugging out of his.
I fumble with my buttons, gaze snagging on a gallery wall of family photos: Eben between his parents—his mother, a petite, gorgeous blonde; his father, a tall, salt-and-pepper stud with a spray tan and an LED-white, troublemaker smile.
Eben has his mom’s eyes and face, as well as his dad’s chiseled jaw and height.
Eventually, his dad vanishes from the photos. After that, his mom seems to shrink, her beauty fading year by year, until the pictures stop in Eben’s late teens.
I slip my coat off, and he takes it. His eyes bug for a split second. I look down. Right: the fire-engine red dress Ally bought me—a little much for a first date.
He clears his throat and gazes toward the kitchen, trying to be a gentleman. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks, his voice a little hoarse.
My lady-boner is wilting by the minute in the presence of all these granny-chic florals and frills. For a split second, I consider asking Eben if he’s got any Ensure. I settle on begging for alcohol instead. “You got any wine?” I ask, needing it.
“Beer?”
“That’ll do.” I follow him into a barren kitchen, where a few appliances and a tub of protein powder are the only items in sight. “Um, quick question—there’s not a shriveled old woman tied up in an upstairs bedroom, is there?”
Both brows rocket up. “Wow. Dark.”
I point at myself. “Raised in a cult.”
“A cult that ties up old ladies?” He hands me a beer.
I roll my eyes. “No, but the brain goes to dark places.”
“This is my mom’s house,” he says, nodding toward the woman in the photos.
“You live with your mom?” I take a swig of my much-needed beer.
He laughs, shaking his head. “God, no.” He gestures to the yellow floral couch, and we make our way over. “This is my childhood home. She couldn’t take care of it anymore, so she moved out, and now I live here.” He glances around. “In my childhood home. That my mom decorated when I was four.”
“Isn’t that… weird?”
“Very weird,” he says with a shrug. “I know I should sell and get a bachelor pad, but I can’t bring myself to do it. She loved this house.”
“Loved?” I say, raising my eyebrows. Why is he talking about her like she’s gone?
He shrugs. “Loves.”
“Or you could just redecorate,” I offer.
“Easier,” he admits, scooting closer until our knees touch. My cheeks flare. “Isn’t that what you do?”
“Yep.” I tip my emotional-support beer.
“Do you freelance?” he asks, leaning in.
I laugh. “Are you trying to hire me?”
“I trust you.” He shrugs.
“You barely know me. For all you know, I’ll turn this place into a boho bedlam. Animal prints, wicker furniture, color explosion.”
He considers. “Kind of sounds nice.”
I give him a look.
“Okay, fine. I’m more of a minimalist.”
I roll my eyes. “All men think they are. Then I find the neon beer sign.”
He shakes his head. “Not here, you won’t.”
I squint. “So if I snoop, I won’t find a stash of anime porn somewhere?”
He screws up his face like I’m an idiot. “Who prints out their anime porn?”
“Aha!” I point at him, already feeling more relaxed. “I knew it. You’re too pretty not to have kink skeletons in the closet.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”
My brain flashes to my bedside drawer full of Christmas-themed dildos. Eben can never, ever know.
“I do not.”
“So you’ve never looked up Santa Claus porn, not once?” He waggles his eyebrows.
I gasp, hand to my chest in mock outrage.. “I have never—”
“MROW.”
I nearly hit the ceiling.