Chapter 25
twenty-five
It’s about me? I stare at him, not sure what to say back to that. Part of me wants to call him a liar. It hasn’t always been about me. It’s not like I’m the one who needs a stand-in date for my company’s Christmas party.
But the way he looks at me makes me want to believe him. I think I do believe him. At least when it comes to this. The word why is on the tip of my tongue, but I pull it back. The way he’s intently watching me is too much for me to keep this conversation on the track it’s going. Something in my gut tells me I shouldn’t dig for what he means because we’re wandering into dangerous territory. When I first met Chase, everything about him screamed that he plays the field and would only want to keep things casual, but the way he’s looking at me now has me second guessing myself. He has no business looking at me this way, and I have no business tripping over that look.
Changing the subject, I ask, “So, how fancy are we talking for this Christmas party? I want to make sure I get the right dress.”
He looks down like he’s collecting himself before answering. “You’ll look amazing in anything you wear. You could show up in a T-shirt, and you’d still steal the show.” His mouth lifts, and I’m grateful for the familiar playfulness behind his eyes. “Just get something you like, and let me pay for it.”
“That is . . . wildly unhelpful but thank you.” I drop the case with my shears into my bag and cross my arms. “What about the decorations? Are we talking chandeliers and ice sculptures or cozy with greenery?”
“I don’t know. Expensive?” he says slowly as he looks around the salon for inspiration. “I’m sure there will be garland and Christmas trees of some variety or another.” His eyes lock on me before trailing to the ceiling above. “Mistletoe.”
I look up, and sure enough, I’m standing directly under one of the many mistletoe scattered around the salon. I swallow before sliding my gaze back to find him studying me.
“That’s still not exactly helpful.” My voice comes out quieter than I expected, but that probably has something to do with it being harder to breathe.
He smiles faintly and walks across my station until we’re both under the mistletoe.
“What are your thoughts on mistletoe?” he asks, his voice low.
I look up again. “I like them as much as any other Christmas decoration.”
Chase lets out a low laugh, pulling my eyes back to him, but he’s still looking above us. “Oh, come on. They’re easily the least useless of all the decorations. They at least serve a purpose.”
My lips turn upward, and I try to desperately hide how hard my heart is hammering in my chest when he brings his gaze back to mine. “I guess that’s a fair point.”
“I think so,” he agrees quietly.
Our eyes lock, and for a moment we’re both just standing toe-to-toe, looking at each other. He’s close enough for me to feel the heat coming off him. Close enough for me to smell the scent of fresh linens and his usual spice. If either of us shifted an inch, there’d be no space between us.
How much I crave to close that space is terrifying.
My breathing shallows, and Chase’s gaze dips to my mouth for a fraction of a second. There’s a seriousness about him again. Lost is the playful quirk of his lips or the mischievous glint in his eyes. The man standing before me looks like he’s full of heavy thoughts and deliberation. He glances up at the mistletoe again before settling his unwavering gaze back on me. “We should probably—” His focus shifts to my mouth again. “You know, we might as well . . . so we know what we’re doing.”
My voice is soft when I ask, “For practice?”
His eyes jump to meet mine. “Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think we should practice.”
“Okay,” I whisper, my voice all but completely gone.
But he doesn’t kiss me right away. His hand weaves into my hair, and that alone is enough to make my breath catch in my throat. His tongue wets his bottom lip, like just the thought of what he’s about to do has his body physically reacting.
I’m completely still. I think I’ve forgotten how to move. I barely remember how to breathe.
His thumb runs along my jaw, setting every fiber of my being ablaze. It isn’t until the seconds passing without his lips on mine turn to torture that I breathe out his name.
His stare jumps from my lips to meet my gaze.
“This is the part where you kiss me.”
And just like that, his eyes fall back to my mouth again. “I know,” he says, his voice rough. He swallows. “But if I fuck this up . . .” He shakes his head.
I open my mouth, but whatever I was about to say gets wiped away when his lips find mine. All hope of him being a bad kisser is also wiped away—along with every other thought I could have. I soften into him. All the tension I’ve held in my body, trying to keep this man at a distance, melts from solid ice to a puddle.
His warm, perfect lips drag over mine. And as they do, he somehow pulls me with him. I push up on my toes, not wanting this to end—trying to keep us connected in this magical moment for as long as I can.
When our lips threaten to part, I waste no time going back for more. I need it— crave it. If this is the only time I’ll kiss him while we’re alone, I want to make the most of it. My lips pull him back to me in a matter of seconds, and the way it unleashes some of his restraint only fuels me more.
Chase places his free hand on the other side of my face, cradling my head, and I let him tilt my face to kiss me deeper. I let him take control again, and I melt for him a million times over. His tongue expertly parts my lips, pulling a soft moan from the back of my throat, and that small sound has him kissing me deeper. When his tongue slides over mine, a heavy, wanting heat settles between my legs. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this . . . this feeling of hope . . . this feeling of surrender . . . this turned on. My hands are in his hair, and I might as well be a teenager with how desperate I am for more.
I have no idea how much time has passed when we eventually pull apart. With heavy breaths, I imagine what I must look like in this moment: swollen lips, skin chafed from his weekend scruff, and I’m sure my hair is an absolute mess.
When Chase finally drops his arm and creates a crack of space between us again, he’s breathing hard, too. He’s disheveled, and something about knowing I’m the one who undid this perfect man has me dying to kiss him again.
“I don’t think you fucked it up,” I manage to say.
There’s no cocky smirk or playfulness to his voice when he says, “No. That was—” He swallows and nods. “That was good. ”
I take a step back despite everything inside me screaming to jump him. I was hoping the distance would clear my head, but getting a better look at him definitely makes the fog worse. God, the things I would do to him if I didn’t think things would go downhill from there.
Chase clears his throat, and it’s only then that I realize my eyes were dragging down the scope of his body. I blink, and a fresh wave of heat washes over me. Spinning around, I look for something to keep me busy. I grab a comb from my station and tuck it into my bag for no particular reason, and then walk over to my cabinet and act like I’m searching for something, but I can feel his eyes on me the whole time. “So, no advice for the dress, then?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Candace.”
Something in the way he says my name sends my heart into a frenzy. Pausing my pointless search, I slowly turn to face him.
“That was a good kiss.”
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly out of breath again. “It was.”
His warm, brown eyes look darker than I’ve ever seen, but he doesn’t make an attempt to move or speak. He just looks at me, and the weight of his gaze could drop me to my knees. And once I’m on my knees—nope. Not going there.
I close my cabinet and force myself back to reality—the reality where this is practice for a performance. “Think we’ll be able to convince your coworkers?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just stands with his back against my station, but in a fraction of a second, his demeanor shifts. He blinks, snapping out of whatever thoughts he just had and as he pushes off, he says, “Yeah. I’m not worried about it. Got everything you need?”
I nod, looking around the salon one last time. As terrifying as it was to have his full attention a moment ago, I deflate at his shift. “Yeah.”
“Great. I’ll walk you home. ”
Now it’s my turn to scrutinize him. He’s still pleasant, but the closeness we shared has vanished. We’re back to being us—friends. He turns and opens the door, and I thank him as he holds it open. “You don’t have to walk me home.”
Chase shakes his head before looping his arm over my shoulder. “It’s late. I’m walking you home.”
And as much as I want to fight him on it, I don’t. Because he’s touching me again, and all I can do is replay the kiss we shared and think about my newfound appreciation for mistletoe.