Fifteen
Isla
S omething’s off…
I’m sprawled across Asher’s bed, tapping my stylus against my bottom lip as I glare at the sketch on my tablet.
Damn it. It’s still not right.
Over the past three hours, I’ve reworked the Valentine’s Day promo for Patel’s Petals more times than I care to admit. Record-breaking number of times, really.
And yet…it’s still missing it .
Mrs. Patel wants sweet, sexy, and seductive—something to make customers swoon over the holiday. She’s given me full creative freedom with a stipulation that the images work well for both print and social media.
It should be easy money. Quick work. In another life, it would even be fun. Too bad fun is hard to achieve in survival mode.
However, instead of breezing through the project like I usually do, I’m stuck. My mock-ups are stale. The concepts flat. They lack the punch, the sparkle, the energy I’m used to wielding.
AdCraft didn’t just take my job. They fucked with my passion. Cut down my confidence. Trampled on my self-worth and dared me to keep working through the abuse.
Deep down, I know I can’t let them win. I’m certain I’ll get past this. The question is when? How long?
When do I stop feeling like a placeholder in my own success story?
How long until the life I’m fighting for is wholly mine?
I toss my tablet aside and collapse against a mountain of pillows with a groan.
The mattress springs let out a squeaky protest as I sink down, and the gingerbread candle on the nightstand flickers.
Its sugary scent swirls through the room, stirring with the motion I’ve caused.
My favorite smell typically fills me with a soothing type of solace.
Today, it just amplifies the frustration gnawing at my chest.
I’m unsettled. Off-kilter.
Exhaling sharply, I try to lose myself in counting the glow-in-the-dark stars on Asher’s ceiling, but my gaze drifts to the undecorated tree in the corner. Its bare branches mock me, their emptiness a stark reminder of the task I’ve been avoiding all week.
I tell myself it’s because Graham forgot to bring down the box of ornaments from the attic. Deep down, I know better. In any case, Evangeline will notice soon enough and nudge him to take care of it .
And then the countdown to confronting the past will begin.
Every year, hanging those heirloom ornaments means peeling back old scars. Reopening wounds and bleeding out memories that still hurt like hell.
And every year, I make the same quiet promise: Next Christmas will be easier .
But here I am—another December—and the pain still clings to me. Still aches like I lost them yesterday.
I choke back tears. Clear my throat. Try to expel the bitterness.
Focus on the job.
Patel’s Petals. Valentine’s Day.
Flowers. Love. Romance.
I snort under my breath. How does a designer running from everything those words represent—and the messy, complicated feelings they drag out—create a convincing lie for others to buy?
It doesn’t help that the main source of my frustration is now under the same roof again.
Six years ago, Theo Thorne was my biggest champion.
Now ? He’s nothing but a creativity cock block.
I groan, tugging the pillow from under my head and pressing it over my face.
Stop thinking about him .
My brain refuses to cooperate. My free will has a Theo override switch. It doesn’t even give me the courtesy of a warning before catapulting me back to this afternoon in the kitchen.
The Thorne family’s annual cookie contest belongs on a reality TV bake-off. What’s more thrilling than a group of arrogant amateurs racing the clock, elbowing each other for ingredients, and fighting for oven space?
Every year, sugar and flour swirl through the air to create a festive snowstorm. The heat from the stove mixes with the squeeze of too many bodies in too tight a kitchen.
It’s chaos. It’s war.
It’s also kind of perfect.
This time, though, Theo’s presence turns the usual disorder into something far more hazardous.
He’s everywhere.
The solid wall of his chest grazes my shoulder when I spin too fast and collide into him mid–whisk retrieval.
His side brushes mine as he reaches into the top cupboard to help me retrieve a mixing bowl, a move that raises the skin along the nape of my neck.
Then we both go for the same spoon, and his large, warm hand closes over mine, holding my fingers hostage a beat too long.
Once the cookies are ready for baking, the tension in my body starts to melt.
Surely, by this point, I’ve survived the worst.
I’m in the clear.
Or so I think.
Until it happens.
As I bend at the waist to slide the tray into the oven, my backside collides with Theo’s front. It’s an utterly accidental touch, but it creates a seismic reaction. I gasp, rushing to shift forward. With the stove in front of me, my options are limited.
Get burned…or get burned .
Either way, my ass is toast.
Because I’m a mature, reasonable adult, I choose actual flames to avoid further contact with Theo.
He curses, arm clamping around my waist to yank me out of the line of fire.
Hard . The move.
But also… wow .
His grunt is rough. Immediate. And then we both have to endure him leaning over me, his chest to my back, his breath haunting my skin, as he snatches the tray from my hands and shoves it into the oven.
When the door shuts, I stumble back, pressing myself deeper into him. His sharp inhale vibrates against my ear, and his fingers dig into my hip.
The growled “I swear to God, Isla…” that follows fries my brain.
It sounds less like a warning and more like a promise. A threat wrapped in a tantalizing invitation.
Hands shaking, I stumble out of his grasp, my heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest. Heat surges low in my stomach as my mind conjures an image so vivid it steals my breath.
Theo. Gripping my waist. Bending me over. His perfect composure stripped bare as he loses himself in me.
Now, lying here in the dim glow of Asher’s room, the pulse between my legs flares back to life. All my thoughts are soaked in Theo—his scent, his voice, the feel of his body molded against mine.
I can still sense him. Everywhere and nowhere all at once.
With a frustrated groan, I yank the pillow from my face and hurl it across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud before sliding to the floor. The burst of energy fails to temper the needy sensation curling through my body.
No. I’m not doing this. I’m not thinking about him.
The mantra fails, crumbling beneath the weight of want.
I spiral deeper into depravity, flames licking at my skin, thick heat pooling low inside me.
My blood is made of gasoline, and it’s begging for a match.
Every sense is dialed to eleven , nerves buzzing with a volatile kind of energy I can’t contain. Or control .
My thighs press together, desperate for friction, chasing relief. Delicate cotton brushes over my center as my pajama shorts shift. The faint scrape of fabric makes my legs twitch.
Maybe if I just…
Take the edge off?
Purge the feeling, so I can focus and create in peace?
Get off—then get back to work.
It’s a logical plan. Economical , really.
Plus, the house is finally quiet. Asher, my roommate in name only thanks to his nightly Romeo routine with Sienna, is currently sneaking through her window again.
Jovie and Willow are hosting a dance class sleepover at their apartment, while Evangeline and Graham continue to make the holiday party circuit.
With Felix and Rowan only treating the house as a place to grab free food, and Theo too wrapped up in his business to come up for air, the coast is clear.
Five minutes. One orgasm.
That’s all I need to hopefully stop thinking in graphic rom-com—or, rather, cringy porn —montages.
As my hand begins a languid descent down my stomach, fingers dipping under the waistband of my shorts, I focus on one simple rule: No thoughts of Theo allowed.
Except, the moment I close my eyes, here he comes.
Ready to make me come.
My body—wired to continuously betray and torture me—conjures him in infuriatingly high definition: the sharp angles of his jaw, the dark waves of his hair, those green eyes that blaze when he’s angry. Or aroused.
With a tortured whimper, I force my hand to still.
No Theo .
I repeat the words like a prayer, a command, and even a curse, but banishing him from my head is impossible. Just the thought of his name sends another rush of heat pulsing through me.
Before I can stop it—before I can stop myself —I give in. The kitchen scene, sharpened by need and twisted by my vibrant imagination, claims me.
“Stay like that, Sunshine.”
Instead of moving away—like he had in reality—Theo grips my hip to hold me in place.
The fingers of his other hand twist in my hair, pulling my head back so he can kiss me with the brutal intensity I crave from him.
Mouth devouring. Lips trailing fire. Teeth branding my skin.
He consumes me so wholly he infuses himself into my blood, my bones, my breath.
Everywhere.
Logic abandons me. All reason flees. I’m reduced to sounds and sensations, fingers working faster as Theo takes control.
My touch is urgent. Determined.
But it’s still not enough. Not nearly enough to get me there.
I need more. I need…
Theo pulling my skirt up, shoving my underwear to the side, sinking into me so he can fuck me from behind.
His voice pours praise and filth into my ear as his muscles flex against my back with every brutal thrust. The soundtrack?
His low groans, my ragged pants, the obscene slap of skin on skin.
A rhythm of reckoning. Each drive of his hips is a demand. A claim. A call to surrender.
And when I give in—when I let go and break for him—he follows, losing himself in me.
“You’re mine, Sunshine. All of you. Mine.”
The erotic fantasy shreds through me, unleashing a full-body shudder, and I start to shatter.
My free hand claws at the sheets, searching for something— anything —to ground me as my spine bows off the bed and my legs tremble.
Lips sealed tight, I fight to keep his name from tearing free from my throat.
I fail.
Alarmingly fast, I’ve gone from No Theo to Yes, Theo .
Please, Theo.
Through my haze, I register a soft click . There’s a slight shift in air pressure as the door swings open. My body stiffens, sensing before seeing.
A gruff curse slices through the rhythm of my panted breaths.
I freeze. My eyes snap open.
Heart. Lodged. In. My. Throat.
One beat. Two. Three.
Shit .
Theo—the real, live one—stands in the doorway, upside down from my vantage point on my back. In one hand, he grips the familiar tattered ornament box, its edges crushed under the force of his grasp. His other hand is white-knuckling the doorframe, fingers clamped around the wood in a vise grip.
Pupils blown wide, his gaze is shadow and storm. He’s not looking—he’s devouring . Stripping me down, with nothing but his dark stare.
Chest heaving. Jaw ticking.
He looks as unhinged as I feel.
“ Fuck , Isla.” His eyes drop, zeroing in on the hand I’ve forgotten to pull away. The view makes his nostrils flare.
“Shit.” I instantly yank my fingers from my shorts and roll off the bed in a graceless tangle of limbs. “What are you—” My question cuts off as I crash to the floor in a horny heap of mortification.
“Ornaments,” he says, his voice clipped. Lifting the box in a half-hearted offering, he makes no other move.
Neither to enter, nor to leave .
“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” I snap, scrambling to my knees.
“I have.” He clears his throat. “Didn’t you hear me knock? Multiple times.” His gaze bounces, lingering on my right hand. “Suppose you were…busy.”
Heat floods into my every pore. “I was… uhh …working on a project.” I gesture feebly toward my tablet.
“Understood.” The corners of his mouth quirk up. “I’m a strong advocate for hands-on development.”
“Theo!” I hang my head, hiding my flaming cheeks behind a curtain of hair. “I’m already dying of embarrassment. Please don’t make it worse.”
“If I don’t make light of this, Isla”—his voice drops into a husky rasp—“I’ll keep picturing you splayed out on your back, hand down those tiny little shorts. And then—”
My attention snaps up. “And then…?”
His lips flatten. “I should go.” Without another word, he turns to leave.
“Wait!” The plea flies out more urgently than I’d intended. “ Umm …” I take a steadying breath and nod toward the box. “My ornaments.”
Theo pauses at the threshold, his shoulders tensing, but he doesn’t look at me. Instead, he strides over to Asher’s desk and sets down the box with a sharp, controlled motion. “You’re all set.”
“Thanks.”
He’s almost out of the room when I call for him again. “Wait. Can you…” My heart clenches in my chest, but I push through. “…help me?”
He freezes, his back still to me. My question hangs in the air for such a long time that I regret bringing it up.
I’m about to tell him to forget it, but he slowly turns .
When his eyes meet mine, they’re filled with understanding. Long gone is the heat his gaze previously held. Instead, I’m hit with a tenderness that makes me shiver in a whole new, different way.
“You want help with the tree?”
I nod. “I don’t want to be alone for this,” I whisper. “Stay. Please .”