Chapter 7 #2
From outside, Esther’s voice rose on the wind. “Parking rates have just switched to hourly. Ten pounds for an hour and a compliment for Cherise’s hat or I’ll read you my thoughts on Dickens.”
My phone dinged and I glanced down to see a cancellation notification, and an email from another.
“The rest of my guests coming this week just canceled,” I murmured, deflating. “Look at that.”
“So it’s just us.”
“Just us,” I repeated, the words working their way through me and igniting my core with need.
Along with anxiety. I have no income now for the foreseeable future. Bloody hell. How was that going to work? Would I have to close the inn? The last thing I wanted was to fail Gran.
Voices rose outside, and I stood and crossed the room to peek out the door.
More cars had arrived, and Harper and Rosie had joined the Book Bitches in their standoff.
They’d brought chairs, and someone had dragged a small fire pit onto my lawn.
Gregory was squatting and building the base for a fire, while Cherise was flirting with a man whose cheeks had gone pink at the attention.
“I brought my guitar,” Noah offered. “Maybe you’ve got a few half-finished songs sitting around. Want to give it a go?”
It felt like he was asking so much more.
We stood on either side of the room. The inn breathed.
The wind rattled the old glass. Outside, the Book Bitches started Jingle Bells in a key previously unknown to science.
And even though it was just confirmed that the inn would probably have to close, Noah wanted to make music.
Did he really not care that I was losing my gran’s business?
I pushed past him to the hallway because I couldn’t be in a room with him right now.
My emotions were pinging around inside, like too many balls loose in a pinball machine, and I wasn’t sure I could trust what I said next.
I paused when I realized he was following me and turned.
While a part of me did want to make music with him again—desperately—I was also worried about my inn.
For some reason, we looked up at the same time.
“Mm,” Noah said, a surprised look on his face. “That wasn’t there before.”
Mistletoe.
Hanging right in the center of the arch, its pearly berries looking smug, leaves tied in a green satin bow made from Gran’s ribbons.
“I didn’t put that there,” I rushed out.
“Esther?” he guessed, craning his neck.
“Esther would have posted a sign,” I said faintly. “With rules.”
“Rosie?”
“She’d have strung fairy lights around it and a footnote about informed consent.”
He looked at me. “Gran?”
“Stress,” I said immediately, too loudly. “This is stress. We do not have a ghost.”
We didn’t move. Of course we didn’t move. The hallway seemed to pull in on itself, the old plaster holding its breath, the wind outside lifting its chin to see better. The Book Bitches launched into Silent Night like an unlicensed Greek chorus. Somewhere, a car door slammed.
He stepped in and I felt the heat of him like a hand at my back.
It had always been like that. He was so tall, so strong, and whenever I was near him, he seemed to be able to envelop me.
I’ve longed to be this close to this man again.
I missed his touch. I’d never admitted that out loud, but the heat between us—the love—had been insanely amazing.
And here we were, together, the mistletoe hung above us, a question unanswered.
“House rules?” he asked.
“No songs about me,” I said, because if I stopped being ridiculous, I’d start being honest, and we could not have that on a weekday. “No paparazzi. No touching”—my mouth betrayed me—“without asking.”
He swallowed. “Skye.”
“Noah.”
“Can I—” He stopped, closed his eyes, opened them. “Can we forget about the past for a moment? I’m dying to taste you again.”
“Yes,” I said, a tremble working through me. “We can do that.”
His lips slid over mine, both a promise and a memory, and my heart shivered.
Tilting my head, he licked softly into my mouth, his tongue sliding against mine, and heat ignited in my core.
We’d always been this way. Our chemistry was palpable, and I moaned into his mouth and threaded my arms around his neck.
He lingered, savoring my kiss, never rushing.
Desire threaded through me, a longing so sharp it hurt, and I arched against him, loving the slide of his tongue across mine, the way his teeth scraped lightly against my lower lip.
He bumped me lightly back against the doorframe, his hands stroking down my back, cupping my bum and pulling me closer to him.
I gasped against the friction of him, the longing building inside me, and sank further into the kiss.
“God, Skye. I’ve missed you,” Noah said while breaking away.
Our eyes met, so many words unsung, and then he took me under again.
He slid his hands beneath my jumper, finding my skin, and I shivered at his touch.
Lovely liquid heat slipped through me, and I rocked lightly against his hard body.
His lips were demanding, coaxing me to give every inch of myself over to the kiss, and when we finally broke apart, my chest was heaving, and my body was flushed with need.
Bloody hell, but I wanted to grab his hand and pull him upstairs. I wanted to feel the weight of his body against mine, leaning over me and filling me so that I didn’t have to think about yesterdays or tomorrows. He made me want to feel again.
“Whoever put that up,” he said, his voice decidedly cheerful, “has a dark sense of humor.”
“I’m burning it after dinner,” I said, already knowing I wouldn’t.
“Liar,” he said, his mouth quirking up in that shit-eating grin he had.
“Obviously,” I sighed. My lips still burned from his kiss. Of course, I was going to keep the mistletoe up. Now that I had the taste of his kiss on my lips again, I wasn’t sure I’d ever stop craving it.
Outside, Esther’s voice rose. “That’s four tickets and two slices of Dundee cake! Now sing, you vultures!” The paparazzi, to their credit, tried to harmonize. I snorted.
“Those poor bastards have no idea what they’re dealing with.” Noah laughed.
The phone on the front desk rang, and I glanced at it, the moment broken.
“Go on,” Noah said, running a finger across my cheek. “I know you have business to deal with. I’ll make myself useful by bleeding all the radiators now that the rooms are empty.”
I went to answer a call that I knew would be another cancellation, and he went to find the radiator key. The mistletoe stayed where it was, smug as a cat, and the inn watched us with the indulgence of old buildings who knew how the story went even when the people in it pretended they didn’t.