Chapter 2 #2
I narrow my eyes at him, suspicion cutting through the whiskey haze. “I’m listening.”
“The way to prevent your family from gossiping about you is simple. Show up with a better boyfriend.”
I stare at him. Then I laugh because that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard all day. “Oh, sure. Let me just pluck one from the boyfriend tree. They’re in season this time of year, right? Maybe I’ll grab two, just to be safe.”
His expression doesn’t change. “When you get back to work, I’m implementing a new policy. No alcohol for you. Ever. It seems to affect your comprehension skills.”
“You don’t have to be so cryptic,” I snap, drilling my finger into his chest. The cashmere is soft under my touch, and I can feel the solid muscle beneath it. “Just tell me what you mean.”
He wraps his hand around my finger, stopping the motion, and his smile is sharp. “I’m talking about myself, Olivia.”
The bar goes quiet. Or maybe it doesn’t—maybe the carolers are still murdering “Deck the Halls,” and that kid is still shrieking about Santa—but I can’t hear any of it over the sudden rushing in my ears.
I go very, very still.
“You’re suggesting,” I say slowly, each word careful, “that we pretend to date each other.”
“Yes.” Just that. One word, delivered like he’s confirming a meeting time.
“You want to-to pretend… with me.” I need to hear him say it again because surely the alcohol is messing with my brain or my hearing.
“I’m tired of avoiding my family,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “They want me to settle down. If I tell them I have a girlfriend, they’ll leave me alone. You want a peaceful vacation where no one pities you or gossips about your failed relationship. This solves both problems.”
My brain is struggling to catch up. “So you’d... come with me? To my hometown?”
“Yes.”
“To Silverbell Hollow.” I repeat once again, just to be sure.
“Yes.”
“And pretend to be my boyfriend.”
“Well, yes. That is how this would work, Olivia.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re going to try to make me work, aren’t you? This is some elaborate scheme to make me work during my vacation.”
“I won’t make you work.”
“You can’t make me work,” I correct, drilling my finger into his chest again. “I’m on vacation. That’s the whole point. No work. No emails. No—”
He wraps his hand around my finger again, stopping me mid-poke, and his smile turns dangerous. “I hope you remember how you’re behaving right now when you’re sober. You seem to be forgetting who you’re talking to.”
“I’m on vacation,” I repeat, but my voice has lost some of its edge because his hand is still wrapped around mine, warm and firm.
“Do you agree to my plan?”
I turn to look at Rick, who’s been watching this entire exchange with wide eyes. “Ricky. Tell me what you think.”
Rick looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I don’t think I should—”
“Tell me.” I reach over and grab Alexander’s jaw, turning his face toward Rick like I’m presenting evidence. “Look at him. What do you think?”
Alexander goes very still under my hand, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Rick clears his throat, glancing nervously between us. “I think... if my boyfriend cheated on me and I showed up with someone who looks like that, it would be pretty good revenge.”
I release Alexander’s jaw and turn back to him. “Fine. Ricky agrees with you. I’m in.”
“My name’s Rick,” the man whispers weakly, but I’m not paying attention.
Alexander’s smile is slow and satisfied, like a predator that’s just cornered its prey. “Then we should seal the deal.”
I get to my feet and hold out my hand for a shake, professional even in my drunken state.
He wraps his fingers around mine and yanks.
I slip forward, falling into his lap, my hands landing on his chest to catch myself.
He's solid and warm, so warm. It seeps through the fabric beneath my palms, steady and grounding.
I can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the firm muscle that doesn't yield under my touch.
His cologne wraps around me, woodsy and expensive and entirely too distracting.
Then I blink, and reality snaps back into focus.
Suddenly I'm very aware of how close our faces are.
His hand on my waist is steady, possessive even, and it makes me feel... small. Feminine. Like I’m not the hyper-competent executive assistant who runs a billion-dollar empire, but simply a woman being held by a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
“If we’re going to make this work,” he says, his voice low and intimate in a way I’ve never heard before, “we’ll have to make it realistic.”
My brain is fuzzy from the whiskey, but I manage to ask, “How?”
His thumb moves against my waist, a slow circle that has me biting my lower lip to stop myself from making an embarrassing sound. “I’ll have to touch you in front of your family. Make it believable.”
I choke repeating that last word. “Believable.”
“Yes.” His other hand comes up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and the gesture is so casual, so intimate, that my breath catches.
“People who are dating touch each other, Olivia. They stand close. They...” He trails off, but his fingers linger at the side of my face, tracing along my jaw.
“We can hold hands,” I say quickly, trying to regain some control over this situation. “That’s... That’s believable.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. It’s a low, rich sound I’ve maybe heard twice in six years, and it does something dangerous to my insides.
“Hold hands,” he repeats, like I’ve just suggested something adorably naive. “That’s not nearly enough.”
“It’s a start.”
“It’s what teenagers do on their first date.” His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, and I have to suppress a shiver. “We’re supposed to be adults in a serious relationship. One serious enough that I’d travel to a small town in North Carolina to meet your family.”
“So what are you suggesting?” My voice comes out breathier than I’d like.
“I’m suggesting,” he says slowly, his fingers moving through the hair at my nape, “that if your ex-boyfriend is going to believe you’ve moved on with someone better, I need to look like someone you can’t keep your hands off of.”
“I—” My brain is struggling to form thoughts. “That’s—”
“Olivia.” He says my name like a reprimand, but his eyes are dark with something that isn’t annoyance.
“When I touch you, you need to look like you want me to. When I kiss you, you need to kiss me back. When I put my arm around you, you need to lean into me like you belong there.” Each word is delivered in that low, commanding tone, and I realize with growing alarm that my body is already responding to it, already swaying closer to him.
“Kiss you,” I echo, my eyes dropping to his mouth before I can stop myself.
“Yes.” His hand tightens on my waist, pulling me impossibly closer. “Because holding hands won’t convince anyone. But this...” He leans in, his breath warm against my lips, close enough that I can see the darker ring around his gray irises. “This might.”
“We’re in public,” I manage weakly.
“We’ll be in public in Silverbell Hollow, too.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and my eyes flutter closed for just a second. “Better to practice now, don’t you think? While you’re drunk enough to have an excuse if it goes poorly.”
That snaps my eyes open. “Goes poorly?”
“Chemistry can’t be faked, Olivia.” His voice drops even lower. “Either we have it or we don’t. Either this will work or it won’t. So let me kiss you, and we’ll see.”
I should say no. Should pull away. Should remind him that he’s my boss and this is crossing about seventeen different lines.
But somewhere, “Silver Bells” is playing from a speaker, and his hand is sliding back into my hair, and his body is warm and solid against mine, and I’m just drunk enough to think that maybe—maybe—this isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had.
“Fine,” I breathe. “Practice.”
His smile is slow and dangerous. “Good girl.” Then he closes the distance between us.
It’s not gentle. It’s not tentative. His mouth moves over mine with absolute confidence, like he’s done this a thousand times, like he knows exactly how to make me melt.
My hands curl into his sweater, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, and I make a sound that would be embarrassing if I could think clearly enough to be embarrassed.
But I can’t think. Can’t do anything except feel—the press of his mouth, the solid strength of his body, the way his fingers flex against my hip like he wants to hold me tighter but is restraining himself.
His hand slides deeper into my hair, tilting my head to exactly the angle he wants, and I let him.
Let him control the kiss, control me, because apparently three glasses of whiskey have obliterated every professional boundary I’ve spent six years maintaining.
His tongue traces my lower lip. I open for him without thinking, and the kiss deepens into something that definitely shouldn’t be happening in the middle of an airport. He tastes like expensive scotch and something darker, something dangerous, and I’m drowning in it.
Somewhere in the background, those carolers hit a particularly off-key note on “Joy to the World.” Someone’s wheeling a suitcase past us, the wheels clicking rhythmically against the tile.
The airport intercom crackles with an announcement about a delayed flight to Miami.
But I don’t care about any of that because Alexander Castellano is kissing me like he means it, and I’m kissing him back like I’ve wanted to do this for longer than I’m willing to admit.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless and dizzy and completely disoriented. He’s watching me, his gray eyes dark and intense, his breathing just slightly elevated. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache.
“Realistic enough?” he asks, his voice rough around the edges.
I can’t speak. Can’t form words. Can only stare at him while my heart pounds against my ribs and “Silver Bells” continues overhead.
His mouth curves into something that might be satisfaction. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He releases me slowly, steadying me before letting go completely. “Good. Then it’s settled.”
He stands, pulling out his wallet and laying down cash on the bar—enough to cover all our drinks and a generous tip. Rick is still staring at us like we’re a particularly entertaining reality show.
“Thank you for your counsel, Rick,” Alexander says, his tone perfectly professional, like he didn’t just kiss me senseless thirty seconds ago.
“Uh, yeah. Sure. Good luck?” Rick looks completely bewildered.
Alexander picks up his own carry-on, then turns to me and holds out his hand. “Your ticket.”
I blink at him, my brain still sluggish from whiskey. And that kiss. “What?”
“Your plane ticket. Give it to me.”
“Why?”
His smile is measured. “Because if you’re taking your boyfriend home to meet your family, he needs to make an impression. We’re canceling your flight.”
“But—”
“We’re going shopping,” he says, like it’s already decided. “For your family. If I want to make a good impression on my girlfriend’s family, I can’t arrive empty-handed. Then we’ll book new flights. Together.”
I stare at him. Then I dig through my bag and pull out my boarding pass, holding it out to him. He takes it, tucking it into his pocket. “Come on. We have work to do.”
“This is insane,” I mutter.
“Probably.” He starts walking. “But it’ll work.”
I have no choice but to follow, my legs still unsteady. Behind me, those carolers launch into “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” and I can’t help but think that home is about to get a lot more complicated.