Chapter 10 #3
The pickup area was chaos—cars jockeying for position, people hugging on the curbs, a shuttle bus blaring its horn at someone double-parked. "Jingle Bell Rock" played from somewhere, competing with engine noise and shouted greetings.
I spotted him immediately when I pulled up to the curb.
He was standing under one of the massive wreaths with a large rolling suitcase and a leather messenger bag slung across his chest, scanning the line of cars with an expression caught between anticipation and nerves.
His dark hair was slightly mussed from the flight, and he was wearing jeans and a henley layered under a wool coat—casual Brent, not bestselling author B.L.
Cross. The December wind ruffled his hair, and even from inside the car I could see him shivering slightly in the late afternoon cold.
He looked perfect.
Our eyes met through the windshield and his entire face transformed. The smile that broke across his features was so genuine, so relieved, so full of unguarded joy that my chest cracked open.
I threw the car into park and got out, not caring that I was blocking traffic or that the car behind me was honking.
"Hi," I said when I reached him, the word coming out rough and inadequate for everything I was feeling.
"Hi." He dropped his messenger bag and pulled me into a kiss that made my knees weak.
Right there on the sidewalk with cars honking and people streaming past us and the shuttle bus driver yelling at someone.
His hands cupped my face, cold fingers against my skin, and I gripped his coat and for five perfect seconds, nothing else existed.
When we finally broke apart, both breathless, frost forming in the air between us, he rested his forehead against mine.
"I missed you," he said, voice rough and low. "So fucking much."
"I missed you too." I kissed him again, softer this time, tasting coffee and airplane air and Brent. "Come on, we should move before we cause an accident."
We loaded his suitcase into my trunk—heavier than I expected, packed for more than just a visit—and then he was in my passenger seat, and this was real. Brent was here. In Colorado. In my car. Looking at me like I was the reason he'd crossed the country.
I pulled back into traffic, heading for the highway, overly aware of his presence beside me. The way he kept glancing over. The way his knee bounced slightly with nervous energy.
"So," he said as I merged onto I-70 west. "I'm here."
"You're here." The sun was already starting to sink behind the mountains ahead, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. "How was the flight?"
"Long. Crowded. Full of families traveling." He reached over and laced his fingers through mine on the console between us, and the contact sent electricity up my arm. "I watched two rom-coms and stress-ate an entire bag of pretzels."
"Romantic."
"Hey, one of them was good. Very emotional airport reunion scene." His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. "Though I think ours was better."
Heat climbed my neck. "We did cause a minor traffic incident."
"Worth it." He lifted our joined hands and kissed my knuckles, and the feel of his lips on my skin made warmth pool low in my belly. "How are you? Really?"
"Terrified and excited in equal measure." I glanced over at him, at the way the late afternoon sun caught in his hair. "You just blew up your entire career. For me."
"Not for you. Because of you. There's a difference.
" His grip tightened on my hand. "I turned down a contract, Jason.
My agent is furious, my publisher thinks I've lost my mind, and I have no idea what I'm doing next.
But for the first time in years, I'm not drowning.
I'm choosing myself. And yeah, coming here? That part's about you."
My throat went tight. "No pressure."
"All the pressure." But he was smiling, and when he looked at me the intensity in his eyes made my pulse skip. "I'm terrified this won't work. That I'll get to Juniper Bluff and realize I romanticized everything. That you'll realize I'm a mess and regret ever—"
"I won't." I squeezed his hand. "I know we'll figure it out. I'm sure of it."
We drove in silence for a while, but it wasn't comfortable—it was charged, electric, five days of separation and desperation humming between us like a live wire.
Every time his thumb moved against my hand, every time I glanced over and caught him watching me with dark eyes, the tension ratcheted higher.
The highway cut through the mountains as the sun sank lower, and Christmas lights began to blink on in the houses we passed.
Some were tasteful strings of white along rooflines.
Others were gloriously over-the-top—inflatable Santas competing with light-up reindeer, one ambitious display featuring what looked like the entire cast of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer synchronized to music I could see but not hear.
"Colorado goes hard on Christmas," Brent observed, his voice slightly strained.
"Wait until you see Juniper Bluff. The whole town looks like it fell out of a Hallmark movie." I shifted in my seat, trying to ease the building tension. "How far did you tell people you were going?"
"Cassandra knows I'm in Colorado. She's not speaking to me." His hand tightened on mine. "Everyone else... I didn't really tell anyone. There's no one to tell."
The loneliness in that admission made my chest ache. "Well, you've got people now. My friends are dying to meet you.”
"Looking forward to it. I think." He was quiet for a moment, then: "How far to Juniper Bluff?"
"About forty minutes now." I swallowed. "Why?"
"Because I've been thinking about touching you for five days straight and it's taking all my control not to beg you pull over right now." His voice had dropped lower, rougher. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to sit here and just hold your hand when what I want is to get my mouth on you?"
Heat flooded through me, my face burning. "Brent—"
"I know. We're on a highway. It's not even dark yet. I'm trying to be civilized." His hand moved to my thigh, palm hot even through my jeans. "But it's been days since I've touched you. Since that last morning at the lodge? That's been playing on repeat in my head."
My breathing went shallow. "Same."
"Yeah?" His hand slid higher, fingers pressing into the muscle of my inner thigh. "What have you been thinking about?"
"Brent." But my voice came out breathy, unconvincing. "You're not helping."
"I don't want to help. I want to get you alone." He brought our joined hands to his mouth and sucked my index finger between his lips, tongue swirling around the tip, and I nearly swerved into the next lane.
"Jesus—you can't—"
"Can't what?" He released my finger with an obscene pop. "Can't tell you I've been dying to taste you again?" His hand tightened on my thigh. "Can't say I want to take you apart the second we're alone?"
"Fuck." I was half-hard already, shifting uncomfortably. The car behind us laid on the horn because I'd slowed to fifty. "You're going to kill me before we even get home."
"Home," he repeated softly, and something shifted in his expression. "I really like the sound of that."
The rest of the drive was sweet torture.
Brent kept finding ways to touch me—his hand on my thigh, burning hot.
His fingers tracing patterns on my wrist that made goosebumps rise.
His thumb brushing the sensitive skin on the inside of my elbow.
Every casual touch felt intentional, deliberate, and designed to drive me out of my mind.
By the time we made it into town, full darkness had fallen and the town was ablaze with Christmas lights.
The massive spruce in the town square glowed like a beacon, visible from blocks away.
Every shop window on Main Street held an illuminated display.
Garland wrapped around every lamppost, white lights spiraling up toward the stars.
"Wow," Brent breathed, leaning forward to look. "You weren't kidding about Hallmark movie."
"Wait until you see my neighbor." I turned onto Oak Street, where the houses sat close together, each one trying to out-decorate the last. "There."
I pointed to the cottage next to mine.
"That's... enthusiastic," Brent said.
I pulled into my driveway, where my own cottage sat in relative darkness—just the porch light on, and the small wreath visible on my door. "I'm a little less festive."
"I can see that." But he was smiling as he looked at my house—cream clapboard with green shutters, the small porch, everything modest and neat.
I killed the engine and for a moment we just sat there, both breathing hard, the air between us crackling with tension.
"Jason," Brent said quietly, turning to face me. "I need you to know—I didn't come here just for this. I came because I'm falling in love with you and I needed to see if we could build something real."
My heart stuttered. "I know that. But I also need you to know—I've been climbing the walls without you. So when we get inside—"
"When we get inside," he interrupted, his eyes dark even in the dim light from the street, "I'm going to make up for every second we've been apart."
We got out of the car in silence, our breath fogging in the December cold.
I grabbed his suitcase while he took his messenger bag, and my hands were shaking as I unlocked the front door.
The temperature had dropped with sunset—probably in the low twenties now, the kind of cold that bit through layers.
I barely had time to flip on the lamp by the couch—soft, warm light filling the small living room—and drop the suitcase before Brent had me pressed against the now-closed door, his mouth hot and demanding on mine.
"Fuck," he breathed against my lips. "I've missed you so much. Missed this."
"Bedroom," I managed between kisses, even as my hands came up to grip his shoulders. "Down the hall—"