Chapter 10
Cole
“This is a hate crime against fashion,” I mutter, picking up a jumper with a snowman wearing sunglasses, and holding it at arm's length like it might attack me.
“This is joy, Cole. Pure, unfiltered Christmas joy.”
“Say what you will, but this is a nightmare.” I put the snowman jumper down and pick up another—this one featuring a reindeer with a red pom-pom for a nose. “It has a bell on it. It jingles.”
“That's kinda the point!”
She giggles when I shake it with a wince, and the sound does something to my chest. The same thing it did last night when her unfettered laughter at her smutty romance book drew me to her like a moth to a flame.
“The point is to assault people's senses?” I deadpan as I deposit the jumper back where I found it.
“The point is to embrace the absurdity of the ugly sweater—I mean, the ugly jumper tradition.” She browses through the racks with increasing delight, running her hands over soft knits and scratchy sequins with equal enthusiasm. “You need to learn how to have fun.”
“I know how to have fun,” I protest as I follow her deeper into the shop.
Last night was fun. Last night was fucking incredible.
“Really?” Doubt etches across her petite features as she glances over her shoulder. “Name one fun thing you've done in the past month that wasn't scheduled or colour-coded.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Then narrow my eyes when I find her watching me with a pointed look. “This afternoon doesn't count?”
“This afternoon definitely counts. But that's my point—look how much fun you're having when you let yourself be spontaneous.” She holds up a truly unique specimen—a green jumper with a giant Christmas pudding wearing a crown.
“This is what happens when you take risks. You end up in ridiculous jumper shops having the time of your life.”
She's not wrong. I am having fun. More fun than I've had in... Christ, I can't remember the last time I just enjoyed myself without worrying about the hundred other things I should be doing. Without the constant weight of responsibility pressing down on my shoulders.
She makes me want to be different. Better. The kind of man who doesn't leave notes instead of having difficult conversations. The kind who might actually deserve someone like her.
Holding the jumper up against her chest, she pops a pose, looking ridiculously hot despite the eyesore in her hands. “What do you think of this one?”
“I think it’s a complete and utter abomination.”
“So you love it.”
“I did not say that.”
“Ah…” She grins in delight. “Your smile says differently.”
“I am not—”
I catch myself, and sure enough, there's a smile playing on my lips. Not at the jumper—fuck no—but at the sheer silliness of this entire situation. My jaw tics as I fight and fail to suppress my amusement.
“I'm pretty sure that's just proof that your mission to corrupt me is in full effect.”
“I prefer to think of it as Operation Liberation.” She puts the pudding jumper back with a smug smile and continues browsing. “Come on, there has to be one here that speaks to you.”
“They're all screaming at me. Does that count?”
She laughs, bright and genuine, and the shop owner—an elderly woman with candy cane earrings and a jumper featuring an entire nativity scene lit up with flashing neon lights—gives us an approving smile from behind the counter.
That's when Rory freezes, her attention caught by something in the back corner.
“This one,” she declares, pulling what might be the most ridiculous jumper I've ever seen from the rack with actual reverence. A navy-blue monstrosity with a giant gingerbread man on the front, complete with icing buttons and a bow tie made of actual ribbon.
I look at it like she's just presented me with a live grenade. “It's obscene.”
“Correction. It's festive.” She smooths her hand over the gingerbread man's face appreciatively, and I'm momentarily distracted by the memory of those same hands smoothing down my chest last night. “It's perfect.”
“It's a cry for help.”
“Come on, try it on.” She holds the offending garment out toward me, looking at me in expectation. When I continue to stand there, looking between her and the jumper as if I'm calculating the fastest escape route, she adds softly, “Please, Cole?”
Christ.
Those eyes. The same eyes that looked up at me last night with heat and want and trust I'm not sure I deserve. Eyes I could happily lose myself in…
I narrow my own eyes. “You don’t play fair. You're using those big blues as a weapon.”
She bats her dark lashes exaggeratedly. “Is it working?”
I mutter something under my breath that sounds like a curse in at least three languages, then begrudgingly take the jumper from her hands. “Fine. But you're trying one on too.”
Her bright smile lights up the entire store, and I feel that dangerous warmth in my chest again.
“Deal.”
She finds herself a red jumper covered in icing-topped Christmas puddings doing the can-can while wearing miniature Santa hats—the hats are sequined, obviously—before we make our way to the fitting rooms at the back of the shop.
She catches my eye, her expression thoroughly amused at the predicament I've found myself in.
I give her a look that blatantly says, I'm only doing this for you, which only makes her grin wider, and as I close the curtain behind me, I realise with startling clarity that I'd probably do a lot more than this for her.
That I want to be the kind of man who does ridiculous things just to see her smile.
The Christmas music playing overhead shifts to “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” and I hear her singing along merrily through the thin wall separating our changing rooms.
“This is ridiculous,” I call out from my cubicle.
“Fashion is pain, Hotshot!” The glee in her tone should be insulting.
“Fashion is supposed to be aesthetically pleasing, not a violation on the eyes!”
“You having regrets over there?”
“Not at all,” I deadpan as I shuck my shirt and reach for the knitted atrocity awaiting me. “Merely questioning the life choices that led me to this moment.”
Her tinkling laughter carries over the partition, and despite the idiocy of what I'm doing, I find myself smiling.
Christ, Reed and Jace would have a field day if they could see me now, standing in a fitting room, wearing a jumper with a gingerbread man and bells on it, all because a woman I met yesterday—yesterday, for fuck's sake—looked at me with those pleading blue eyes.
The same eyes that watched me with wonder last night when I made her come apart. The same eyes that saw through every wall I've built and decided I was worth the risk anyway.
Maybe I could be worth the risk…for her.
When I finally manage to get the damn thing on—bells jingling with every movement—I step out to find Rory already waiting.
Oh shit.
Oh shit!
The ugly-as-sin red jumper hugs her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry. My jaw tics involuntarily. The colour makes her skin glow while bringing out the blue in her eyes, and when she bites her lip nervously, then quickly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, my gaze drops to her mouth.
Focus, Adams.
Her eyes are fixed on me, those kissable lips slightly parted, as I raise my arms to adjust the jumper's collar, feeling uncomfortable with the jingling bells.
The movement makes the hem ride up, exposing a strip of my stomach, and I watch her eyes follow the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath my waistband.
The same trail she traced with her tongue last night while I fisted my hands in her hair and tried not to lose my mind.
“This is the most undignified thing I've done in—” I slam to a stop when I notice she's blatantly staring.
I know I'm in decent shape—Jace's brutal workout sessions make sure of that—but the way she's looking at me makes me acutely aware of every defined muscle. Wanting to needle a reaction, I arch an eyebrow. “See something you like, Sweetheart?”
“Nothing,” she murmurs too quickly with a shake of her head, and I watch delightedly as heat floods her cheeks. “Just...the— Er…the sweater—I mean, the jumper. It's very...um…festive. Yeah, it's totally just the jumper.”
My eyes narrow, but there's something deeply satisfying about catching her off guard. About knowing she wants me as much as I want her. “You're a terrible liar.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” She tries to look anywhere other than in my general direction, but her eyes betray her, flicking back to my exposed stomach. To the skin she knows intimately.
I stifle a chuckle before stepping closer, watching her pupils dilate as I drawl. “You were staring.”
“Was not.” She tucks her hair behind her ear again, a nervous gesture that I'm beginning to recognise.
“Were too.” I'm smirking now. Some full-on smirking too, because the way she's looking at me is doing dangerous things to my self-control. The gingerbread man on my chest jingles softly with another step closer. “In fact, I'd say you were eye-fucking me pretty thoroughly just now.”
“Cole—” Her voice comes out breathier than intended, and she bites her bottom lip. Instantly, I remember exactly how she sounded last night when she moaned my name.
I lift the hem of the jumper slightly, revealing that strip of stomach again. “Want me to lift it higher? Really put on a show for you?”
Her eyes drop, and the flush on her cheeks deepens beautifully.
“You know,” she exclaims, trying to recover, “this isn't very book boyfriend behaviour—teasing me like this. Penelope Costa's men would never!”
“Sweetheart.” My voice drops lower as I take another step closer, close enough that her vanilla and cinnamon scent intoxicates my senses. “Book boyfriends are fictional for a reason. Real life is much more interesting.”
But even as I say it, I'm thinking about that note. About how I meant every word when I wrote it, how I genuinely believed I wasn't capable of being what she deserves.