Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Noelle
“See, you already have a volunteer, and you never told me your neighbor has a sexy voice—is he hot?” Val chirps on the other end of the line, but I’m frozen, unsure of what to say or do.
Is he hot? Seriously, Valentina? What the ever-loving fuck? How did we go from checking Chad’s social media to . . . this?
I glance at sexy , very grumpy Jacob McCallister, who’s staring at me like he’s the Big Bad Wolf, and I’m Little Red Riding Hood.
The worst part? I kind of want to let him eat me.
My mind replays what he just said— summa cum laude, valedictorian, and all that shit, thanks to one very big, satisfying orgasm . Is he actually serious? And why does my whole body suddenly feel like it’s on fire? Not just on fire, but practically begging to find out if he can deliver such an intense and satisfying orgasm.
“You should definitely take him up on his offer,” Val adds with a laugh.
I stare at the floor, mouth open, absolutely appalled. Did my big sister just say that out loud? In front of him? Not that he can hear her, but clearly he can read my expression. My face is burning. He offered to . . . and she . . . and now I’m . . . oh God.
Jacob’s eyebrow quirks up, looking far from embarrassed—if anything, he’s enjoying how flustered I am. That smirk on his face says it all. He’s loving this, probably waiting for me to cave and actually say yes. His eyes practically dare me to respond, and the worst part? He’s hopeful I might.
He knows exactly what he’s doing to me, doesn’t he? And the worst part? He’s right.
I could yell at Val for being the absolute worst for even hinting that I should take him up on his offer. Or, I could give Jacob a piece of my mind. But . . . do I really want to? Or is there a part of me wondering if he’d actually be that good with his mouth?
My eyes widen, and before I know it, I’m squeezing my thighs together as my mind races with all the possibilities of what he could do to me.
Jacob catches it—of course, he does—and his smirk grows. His eyes glint with that cocky, flirty energy that makes my pulse quicken. “I see you’re considering it,” he teases, voice low and smooth. “Here’s a proposition for you: stop invoking Santa Claus this early, and I’ll guarantee you an entire very merry season of orgasms.”
I gasp, my mouth falling open. “That’s . . . very bold of you.”
Before I can even think of a response, Val chimes in through the phone, “I’ll take him if you don’t want him.”
“You’re a married woman, Valentina Heart,” I remind her, still in shock. “I thought your husband was good in bed!”
Jacob doesn’t miss a beat. He leans in just a little closer, his gaze locking onto mine with laser focus. “I’m not just good in bed,” he says, voice dripping with arrogance. “I’m excellent on every surface—desks, kitchen counters, shower walls. You name it, satisfaction guaranteed.” His grin widens, wicked and sure. “I’m thorough. Every. Single. Time.”
“Take him,” Val says casually.
“You and I are no longer related,” I mutter, ending the call and yanking out my earbuds.
I try to gather the strength to deal with this—whatever this is. I hate how he’s making me feel, like some schoolgirl panting after the heartthrob who finally notices her. Nope. I wasn’t that girl then, and I’m definitely not going to be her now.
“How dare you butt into my conversation?” I snap, trying to salvage any shred of dignity I have left.
“As I’ve told you before, you should work on your inner voice,” he says, his smirk still firmly in place, clearly enjoying this way too much.
I gape at him. “You’re too controlling. Did you know that?”
“I’ve heard that a time or two, yes,” he replies, his smirk growing even more infuriating. “Which just means I’ll take control and make sure you’re pleased—every time.”
The nerve of this man. I glare at him, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens at his words. “Listen, I’m not sure what makes you think that . . . wait. Are you an escort? Is that why you’re offering me your services? That would explain the expensive suits and fancy apartment.”
His expression darkens, irritation flickering across his face. “I’m not an escort. Not that there’s anything wrong with being one.”
“You’re pushing your services pretty hard, McCallister,” I say, sighing as I try to regain some control. Being the flustered one in our conversations is not a good look, and I hate it. “Obviously, if you’re so eager for me to accept your ‘services,’ there must be an ulterior motive. What is it? How much were you planning to charge? Because I hope you weren’t expecting much—I work at a nonprofit. Hence the house-sitting and coffee shop gigs.”
He scoffs, clearly annoyed. “House sit? You live here and pretend it’s temporary. But”—he gestures toward my overly festive decorations—”this season, you’ll be packing your shit and leaving for good.”
“We’re back to kicking me out?” I sigh, exasperated. “You’ve really got to stop this nonsense. I’ve already told you, Grandma Holly needs me checking on her property. Do you have some deep-rooted issue with house sitters?”
“I’ll happily check on it,” he says, glancing at the door like it’s his next target. “I’ll make sure nobody loiters. Does she know it looks like the holidays threw up all over her front door? I already reported the balcony to the board.”
“Yes, I heard, and because of your generous complaint. Now I have to figure out how to decorate everyone else’s, too,” I shoot back, pretending to be annoyed. “Thanks for that. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do. Some of us have real jobs, you know. Unlike you, who just loiters around and complains about every little thing that happens in this building. Is your life really that miserable?”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it, clearly caught off guard. “I don’t complain about everything,” he finally mutters.
“Of course, you don’t. I get a call from Anna, one of the board members, at least twice a day about some new complaint you’ve made,” I say, shaking my head. “What’s your problem? Have you tried therapy? Do you hate people in general or just the holidays? Did something tragic happen in your childhood? Oh wait, I’ve got it, your parents?—”
“I’m going to stop you right there. My parents are perfectly nice people, and neither of them did anything for me to . . .” He trails off, frowning, like he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
“So you do hate the holidays,” I conclude, throwing out another wild guess. The more I distract him from the whole let’s give Noelle some orgasms thing, the better. Right?
“No, I don’t hate them. I was going to say?—”
“That your therapist hasn’t been able to help you with your anti-holiday disorder? It’s obvious you have all the symptoms,” I say, holding up a finger as if I’m about to present an airtight case. “You hate cinnamon candles, despise twinkly lights, and let’s not forget the uncontrollable rage every time you hear ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’ The evidence is damning.”
“You haven’t even played ‘Jingle Bell Rock,’” he protests.
“Oh, so you’re upset because I’m not playing your favorite song?” I say, pretending as if everything suddenly makes sense. I let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “That’s an easy fix.”
Look at me. If my day job doesn’t work out, I could totally audition for Broadway. I’ve got this whole acting thing down, making it believable, and, well . . . I sing pretty decently too. At least I think I do. But let’s not get sidetracked since I have to finish dealing with the grump next door.
I flash him a cheeky grin. “Give me your playlist, and I’ll make sure to have it on repeat. But let’s avoid ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town’ because, seriously, that whole ‘he sees you when you’re sleeping’ thing is a bit stalker-ish if you ask me.”
“You’re a very weird person, you know that, right?” he says, shaking his head like he’s trying to figure me out but not really succeeding.
“Unique, quirky . . . weird? I’m not sure how I feel about that word,” I say with a thoughtful pause. “But coming from someone who hates people and holiday music, I’m not surprised.”
I dig around in my purse and pull out a small notebook and pen, like I’m about to conduct a serious investigation—or better yet, help him work through some deep-seated holiday trauma. “Tell me—does your aversion to Christmas cheer stem from your childhood? Or maybe your teenage years? Did you suffer some kind of cinnamon or peppermint scented overdose while, I don’t know, visiting a relative?”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “No, I don’t hate anyone. People can’t possibly be that happy just because there’s a holiday going on,” he mutters. “All that music, the lights . . . it’s too much.”
“Too much, you say?” I tap my chin thoughtfully with the pen and scribble too much on my notepad. “So, if I take down a couple of ribbons, will that make you happy?”
“What is it about the holidays that makes you so happy?” he asks, clearly trying to shift the dynamic. Reverse psychology? Maybe, and I won’t let him do this to me.
I smirk, not about to let him take control again. This is my opening—a perfect moment to introduce something I’ve been waiting to spring on him since he almost told me to shove my cinnamon spice-scented candle into the trashcan and shut my music. “It all depends on the holiday and the activity. Have you ever . . .” I trail off like I’m holding back something juicy.
He raises an eyebrow, suspicious. “Have I ever . . . what?”
I work very hard, so I don’t smirk, then shake my head dramatically. “No, I don’t think you’d be interested.”
“Interested in what?” His eyes narrow, curiosity piqued.
I grin, leaning in just a little. “Learning what makes me—or, you know, most people—happy during the holidays. But honestly, it’s probably out of your realm of understanding.” I shoot him a teasing look, knowing he won’t be able to resist. “Maybe that’s it . . . you’re angry at what you can’t understand.”
His nostrils flare. “I’m not angry.”
I do my best not to laugh. He’s practically fuming. “Sure you’re not,” I try not to sound condescending but fail. “Which is why you’re trying to dismantle my decorations.”
“It’s November first. Why in the world would you have Christmas already happening when, just yesterday, you had brooms and candles hanging from the ceiling?”
I huff dramatically. “So your problem is that, according to you, I’m off-season?” I roll my eyes. “Are you the decoration police now?”
“No, but it makes more sense than what you’re doing, don’t you think?” he shoots back, clearly not giving up.
“So, let me get this straight. If I put away my Christmas stuff and put up some fall décor, you’ll stop complaining?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
He narrows his gaze, clearly skeptical. “Maybe, but you can only put up a wreath and nothing else.”
“Let’s make a deal, Jacob McCallister.” I flash him a challenging smile. “I’ll tone down the decorations, but in exchange, you let me teach you why people are actually happy when they celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“Anything,” I reply with a shrug.
He gives me a dubious look. “Anything?”
“Yep,” I say, folding my arms and standing my ground, challenging him with a grin.
He smirks, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I think you just like being on a permanent serotonin high.”
“Could be,” I reply, leaning into it. “Or maybe I just choose to see things from a different perspective. Not that you’d understand. After all, you’re made of pure Scrooge, with a scoop of Grinchy on the side—no sugar, no spice.”
“No, I’m not,” he starts to argue, the smirk slipping just a little. “I just?—”
“We could argue about this all day,” I cut him off with a playful shrug, “or we can agree that I’m your only hope.”
He frowns, clearly confused. “Hope for what?”
“Saving you from your future self,” I tease, watching his reaction closely. “Can you imagine what’ll happen to you in a few years? You’re turning into a bitter old man already.”
“You don’t know me,” he claims, crossing his arms, his stance defensive—like he’s daring me to back down.
“Oh, I know your kind, Jacob McCallister.” I raise an eyebrow, fully enjoying this. “The real question is, are you brave enough to figure out how to stop the inevitable?”
To be honest, I don’t even know what “the inevitable” is, but it seems to have distracted him enough from the whole orgasm conversation. Hopefully, he’s forgotten that I’ve only been with one guy and never had anyone lick me or . . . well, there’s a lot I haven’t done, and it’s none of his business.
With that, I turn on my heel, chin up, and head straight for my apartment. I open the door and walk in without bothering to look back.
Noelle wins this round.