Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Jacob
I’m a pretty smart man. Seriously, my IQ is one hundred and thirty-nine, and my SAT scores were a perfect sixteen hundred. Yet somehow, this woman just bamboozled me into . . . something. What did I agree to? I’m not even sure anymore, but it feels like I’ve been lured into her fantasy island, inhabited by one adorable holiday freak.
And what exactly is she supposed to teach me? The meaning of the holidays? Is that even a real thing?
Frustrated, I bang my fist against the wall that separates our apartments. “What the hell are we supposed to be doing together? I mean, I know I agreed to something, but I don’t remember signing up for a holiday-themed intervention.”
There’s a pause, and then her voice filters through the wall, muffled but still clearly exasperated. “You need to stop banging on my wall every time you want to have a conversation.”
“That’s the only way to get your attention,” I grumble. “But that’s not the point. What exactly did I agree to?”
“I was going to show you how holidays bring happiness to people, but not anymore. I changed my mind.”
The fuck she changed her mind. I know there was a promise—a solid promise that she’d take down those ridiculous decorations. I remember that part clearly. My brain’s just a little scrambled, thanks to the way she talks—and the way my mind keeps drifting back to her mouth.
She’s driving me crazy, and not in the “I want to throttle her” way. More like the “I want to pin her against the wall and show her exactly what I can do with my tongue” kind of way. I shake off the thought—focus, Jacob—but it’s not easy when the idea of her writhing under me, gasping my name, is pretty much the only thing I can think about.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to get a grip, because the thought of her and my frustration are starting to blur into dangerous territory. “Look,” I snap, “there was a deal. You take down the tinsel explosion, and I . . . well, that’s where you need to fill the gap. What the hell did I agree to? But hey, my offer to let you fuck my face is still on the table.”
There’s a brief silence. Then I hear her sputtering on the other side of the wall. “What?! You . . . uh, no.” Her voice is all high-pitched and flustered, and I can practically see her cheeks turning red. “That’s definitely not something we discussed. Focus on your issues with the holidays. That’s what’s on the table, remember?”
And then it hits me. Right. She babbled about the holidays, but that’s not where this all started. We went from her forgetting her keys to her admitting she’s only ever been with one guy, and somehow ended up at my supposed “holiday obsession” or whatever ridiculous label she slapped on me.
Was it holiday aversion? Anti-compulsive disorder? I can’t even fucking remember. She talks too fast, bouncing from one topic to the next like an over-caffeinated elf. It’s exhausting keeping up, and honestly, I tune her out half the time.
Yet, she makes it impossible to forget that I’ve been dying to kiss her. Maybe even get a taste of that sweet cunt of hers. I bet she tastes like the holidays she preaches about—cinnamon sugar and a hint of peppermint, something warm and sweet.
Stop thinking about her lips—or how badly you want to spread her thighs and bury your face between them—and focus on what actually matters here. This deal with the holiday devil could be dangerous. For all I know, I’ve promised her my entire fortune or something equally fucking stupid.
“So, what exactly did I agree to do with you?” I insist, tapping my fingers impatiently against the wall.
“I was going to show you how holidays bring happiness to people,” she replies, her tone clipped. “But not anymore.”
She says it like I don’t deserve to know. Like I’m some naughty boy who’s going to get coal this year for misbehaving. And you know what? Naughty people might get coal, but we also get to have really fucking good sex.
And that’s exactly what I plan to have—Noelle Holiday for the holiday season. I can already picture it.
First, I’d pin her against the wall, my hands sliding up her thighs, slowly spreading her legs apart. I’d take my time, kissing her neck, biting her skin just enough to make her gasp. Then, I’d push her panties aside and show her what it’s like to have someone devour her the way she deserves. My tongue would drive her wild, teasing her clit until she’s begging for more, her legs shaking, her hands gripping my hair, pulling me closer like I’m the only thing keeping her standing.
I wouldn’t stop there, though. I’d flip her over, bend her over the couch, and take her from behind—hard and deep. I’d have her moaning so loud the entire building would hear her scream my name. And the best part? I’d fuck her again and again until she can’t even remember what day of the week it is, much less how to decorate for a damn holiday.
“Too bad,” I say, letting my voice drop into a low, gravelly tone. “I was actually looking forward to learning a thing or two from you. You know, since you’re all about spreading cheer and happiness. I’d be happy to spread something else—all over you.”
There’s a pause, and I know she’s flustered. Her silence gives her away. She’s probably turning red, cheeks flushed, imagining all the filthy things I could do to her.
“You’re impossible,” she mutters, clearly trying to regain control, but I can hear the wobble in her voice.
“Impossible?” I laugh, a dark edge to my tone. “Sweetheart, I haven’t even started yet. But trust me, when I’m done with you, the only thing you’ll want to deck are my balls.”
“It doesn’t matter. There’s no deal,” she snaps, but I can hear the waver in her voice. “Though, you really need to learn to like the holidays.”
No. That’s something I definitely don’t need to learn. Mom tried for years, and the more she pushed it, the more I fucking hated it. The songs are too damn cheery, the lights are too bright, and everything smells like a fucking candle factory exploded. It’s all too much, too overwhelming.
Which is exactly why I need to figure out a way to stop her from overwhelming me.
“You sure?” I ask, letting my voice drop low, laced with heat. “It sounded like you were considering it. Or maybe”—I pause, the words dripping with insinuation—”you were considering the part where I kiss you. Kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before. Where I fuck you so hard, so deep, you’ll be begging for more, screaming my name until you can’t think straight. I’ll make sure you’re wet, trembling, and dripping down your thighs—again and again—until you realize no man’s ever touched you like I would.”
There’s a brief pause before she huffs. Her exasperation is obvious, but there’s something else in her voice too. Something more. Probably embarrassment, but maybe . . . curiosity? I know her secret, and it’s killing her that I do.
And honestly? I don’t get why she’s so worked up about it. There’s nothing wrong with having only been with one guy all her life, just like there’s nothing wrong with never dating and just fucking whoever the hell you want. But now that I know? Fuck, it’s impossible not to tease her about it. To want to remedy her problem, and teach her how a man should make her feel while having sex.
“There’s no deal,” she insists.
“What the fuck?” I taunt, smirking even though she can’t see me. “You’re backing out now? I’m still up for it, as long as you let me kiss you. Besides, you’re adorable when you get all flustered like this. I can fluster you even more.”
“What?!” she squeaks, her voice going an octave higher. “Don’t call me adorable. That’s not . . . I’m not adorable. I’m serious.”
Her reaction makes me grin even wider. I can practically picture her—cheeks flushed, lips parted, looking like she’s two seconds away from combusting. And fuck, it just makes me want to push her even further. “Sure, you’re serious,” I say, my voice thick with amusement. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not adorable. In fact, I’d bet you look even more adorable when I’ve got you pinned under me, your body shaking as I make you scream my name.”
I hear a groan through the wall. “You’re impossible.”
“Fine,” I reply, unable to hide the amusement in my voice. “But just so we’re clear, the offer stands. Anytime you want.”
“No way,” she shoots back, her voice laced with disbelief. “You’re impossible, Jacob McCallister. And if you think I’d ever consider that . . . well, you’ve officially lost your mind.”
I chuckle, leaning against the wall. “And you’re decorating the entire damn building in tinsel. Seems like we’re even.”
“There’s nothing even about it. I’m making people happy,” she counters, her voice full of determination. “You, on the other hand, are . . . What exactly are you trying to accomplish by promising something you can’t even deliver?”
I smirk, my voice dripping with confidence. “Kiss you senseless? Sweetheart, I could give you the best kiss you’ve ever had, and trust me, you’d be begging for more. As a bonus, it’ll make you very, very happy.”
“Wow,” she huffs, sarcasm practically oozing through the wall. “You’re not just arrogant—you’re delusional. And somehow, you think this is a good idea?”
“It would be an excellent idea if it weren’t for the part where you want me to go caroling or . . . wait, what is it you want me to do, exactly? And for how long?” I ask, still unsure what the hell I’ve signed up for.
“Nothing,” she snaps back, her tone sharp. “You can continue with your very sad, very anti-holiday existence, and I’ll stay blissfully ignorant of whatever you call your ‘amazing mouth.’”
It is amazing but I won’t repeat myself, there has to be another way to convince her to let me have a taste and take all the cheer of the holiday down.
“But seriously, when are the decorations coming down?” I counter. “Wasn’t the whole point of this conversation to get rid of your pre-Christmas extravaganza or whatever? Because, honestly, your tinsel addiction is spiraling out of control. And, as I’ve already mentioned, it’s ridiculous to decorate when Halloween was, like, less than twenty-four hours ago.”
“Oh, right. I promised to take the decorations down if—and only if—you learned the real meaning of . . . maybe happiness. You’re way too grumpy,” she says, her voice annoyingly cheery.
“Ugh, you sound like my sister,” I grumble. “She said I’ve gone from grumpy to full-on Grinch, and if I keep this up, I’ll end up as the next Scrooge.”
“She’s right, and if two people are saying the same thing, it’s probably true,” she says somehow victorious.
This just confirms my theory: if these two ever meet, it’ll be catastrophic. The world might implode—at least mine will. I need to make sure Audrey never visits, not until Noelle is out of here. Which reminds me—I need to call that private investigator Caleb recommended. He’s tracking down the owner of this apartment so I can buy it. He’s also confirming that good old Mrs. Holiday is really just on vacation in Arizona.
If I can buy the apartment and get Noelle evicted, there’ll be no more holiday madness, and my Christmas will finally be peaceful. No more twinkling lights, no fucking carols at all hours. Just silence.
“You really are such a Scrooge,” she teases, her voice dripping with amusement. “Maybe I should have pity on you since it’s obvious you need my help. This weekend, we’ll go to Winterbury—a charming little town in Vermont—do some apple picking, drink hot cider, embrace the holiday spirit.”
I nearly choke on my own annoyance. “Why the fuck would I ever want to do that?”
“So I can help you overcome your fear of happiness,” she says, like it’s the most logical thing in the world.
Fear of happiness? What the actual fuck? I let out a harsh laugh. “Let me get this straight. You think dragging me to some quaint little holiday circus town is going to cure whatever issues you think I have? Sweetheart, I’m not afraid of happiness. I just prefer not to drown in it while being smothered by tinsel.”
There’s a pause, and I can almost hear her rolling her eyes. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
“No, I get it. I get that you want to turn me into some Hallmark movie character, prancing around in a fucking snow globe while sipping cider. But that’s not gonna happen. And besides, if I were going to spend a weekend with you, I could think of a hundred better ways to keep us . . . entertained.” I let my voice drop lower, practically daring her to challenge me. “Ways that have nothing to do with apple picking or hot cider. But it’ll definitely leave you breathless, begging, and far happier than any holiday spirit could.”
There’s a brief silence, and I know she’s flustered, probably picturing all the dirty things I’m implying. It’s easy to rile her up, to push her buttons, and fuck, I can’t help but enjoy it.
“Jacob,” she sighs, clearly trying to keep her composure, “you seriously need help. Not the kind I can offer in Vermont, but maybe therapy. Have you considered that?”
I smirk. “Trust me, sweetheart, you wouldn’t want to be my therapist. I guarantee you, within minutes, you’d be begging me to give you my version of happiness therapy. And I’m damn good at delivering.”
“So, to avoid happiness you use sex, huh?” she chimes.
What? Not only does she think I’m afraid of happiness, but I use sex to avoid it? What the fuck? And then, it hits me, she’s just figuring a new way to distract me. I won’t let her, two can play the same game. “Do you realize you keep inventing new issues for me as you speak?” I counter. “Maybe you’re the one with the problem. I think you take your last name a little too seriously. Is that even your real last name, Ms. Holiday?”
She laughs, and I can practically see her rolling her eyes. “Of course it is. It’s a long-standing family tradition to embrace all things festive. My great-great-great-grandfather legally changed the family name to Holiday because, according to him, if you’re not celebrating, you’re not living.”
I’m trying to figure out how far back great-great-great really is. Is that even a real thing? Does it matter? I let out a groan. “That explains so much. Your family has some serious holiday issues. Have you thought about getting that checked? Maybe it’s a DNA anomaly.”
She bursts into laughter. “And you’re gullible too. No one in my family would’ve changed their last name to Holiday, Mr. Grump Next Door. My sister, for one, hates the last name. The day she got married, she practically sprinted to submit her name change paperwork. She said being called Valentina Heart Holiday was the most ridiculous thing in the world.”
Damn, that’s not a cool name at all. “It is a little . . . out there,” I admit, actually feeling a bit bad for Valentina. “So what’s up with the festive names?”
“Mom thought it’d be fitting to name her kids something that matched the last name,” she explains, with a dramatic sigh. “Val was born on February tenth, so Valentina made sense. Then there’s me, the lucky kid who was born the day after Christmas. Naturally, they thought, ‘Hey, let’s slap the most on-the-nose name ever on this poor kid.’ Hence, Noelle. You know, because apparently, Christmas wasn’t festive enough—Mom had to make sure I carried the holiday spirit in every conversation for the rest of my life.”
I laugh. “So, basically, you were born, and your parents went, ‘Yep, let’s make sure everyone knows exactly when she was born. Forever.’”
“Exactly,” she exclaims, shaking her head. “And don’t think it stops there. Every year, I get a birthday cake shaped like a Christmas tree or Rudolph, or . . . it’s Christmassy all the way. Do you know how humiliating that is when you’re ten and you just want a normal cake like every other kid? But nope. It’s for Noelle Holiday, so obviously it has to be festive. Even my presents are wrapped in holiday paper. Every. Single. Year. I’m just one jingle bell away from being an elf.”
I smirk. “Sounds like you’re really living the dream.”
“Oh, totally,” she deadpans. “Who wouldn’t want their entire identity wrapped in tinsel and Christmas cheer when you’re that young? But now, I embrace it. Instead of the birthday song, I get ‘It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year’ before blowing out my candles.”
I shake my head, half-smirking as I imagine how that would look. Is it sad or something to brag about? Is she telling me the truth or just playing me? I change the subject slightly. “Do you have any brothers?”
“Nope, just Val and me. But can you imagine if there was a boy? He’d probably have been named Nicholas. Or Patrick, like my dad—he was born on March sixteenth.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Does he celebrate St. Patrick’s Day?”
She laughs, nodding. “Oh yeah, there’s a rumor he went all out in high school and college. But by the time I came around? ‘Fun Dad’ was just a legend. Now he’s more like ‘Let’s-all-go-to-bed-by-nine Dad.’ I missed all the glory days, but hey, I got the holiday-themed childhood trauma, so it’s a trade-off, right?”
“Your family seems to be . . .” I pause, searching for the right word.
“Interesting?” she finishes for me, a teasing smile in her voice. “Yeah, we’re just your average, mildly dysfunctional family. A little intense, a little quirky, and, well . . . we’re big on traditions. The holiday obsession comes from Grandma Holly—your neighbor.”
“The one who pretends to live here but actually moved to Arizona?” I ask, hoping to get some confirmation and, let’s be honest, a reason to get her out of here.
Noelle laughs again, clearly oblivious to my scheming. “Nice try, but Grandma Holly’s not gone for good. She’s just hiding from the cold for her joints. Trust me, she’ll be back when the weather’s warmer. She can’t resist New York.”
Damn it. There goes my plan to use that as leverage to get Noelle evicted. This woman is going to drive me fucking insane.
“And once she’s back, you’ll be leaving, right? And those damn decorations will finally be gone?” I’m not sure if I’m more hopeful or secretly concerned that when she’s gone, I’ll miss my chance to prove to her that I can ace her ridiculous kissing test.
“Not sure. I have a job in the city, and I’ll probably need a place to stay,” she says casually. “I might convince her to let me crash on her couch while I look for something affordable.”
“Because paying the current rent here is a steal, I imagine,” I say, baiting her.
“Well, actually, I’m not paying anything since I’m house-sitting for my grandmother,” she replies, but there’s something in her tone that makes me think she’s full of shit.
Maybe I should let her “teach” me the so-called true meaning of the holidays. That way, I can catch her in a lie and finally get her out of here.
“So while you’re here, you’re going to teach me how to find happiness?” I ask, half sarcastic.
“I could,” she replies, full of sass, “but I’m not sure it’s worth the effort since you want to take down my decorations. That wouldn’t exactly show you the true meaning of anything, now would it?”
“Then we’ll do it for kisses,” I propose, raising the stakes, enjoying the way her voice falters ever so slightly.
“Oh, right. Because according to you, you’re what—some kind of world-class kisser?” she teases, clearly unimpressed.
“I am,” I say with a cocky grin. “You just need to let me prove it.”
“Not interested,” she replies flatly, like I’m the most ridiculous man on the planet.
Fantastic. This is officially the worst negotiation of my life—and by far the hardest. Closing a quarter-billion-dollar deal for star quarterback Killion Crawford? Piece of cake. Figuring out how to get rid of this woman—or worse, convincing her that I’m a damn good kisser? That’s a fucking mystery.
“What’s it going to take to convince you to give me a chance?” I ask, and I’m not even sure if I’m talking about the decorations or the kisses. Hell, I’m not sure what I want anymore.
“Saturday,” she says, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “Come apple picking with me in Vermont.”
“I’ve got a gala that night, I can’t—” I start to protest, but then it hits me. Wait. Actually, this could work in my favor. “Fine. We’ll do apple picking somewhere closer—upper state New York, maybe Connecticut. As long as you come with me to the gala.”
“I don’t have a dress for that,” she says, already looking for a way out.
“I’ll arrange that,” I reply smoothly, not missing a beat. “Any other excuses, or are you afraid you won’t be able to convince me that the holidays are as magical and full of happiness as you claim?”
“Oh, I’m not afraid,” she says, her voice confident, like she actually thinks she’s in control here.
But she’s not. I’m the one who just won this round.
“Then it’s a deal,” I say, letting the smugness drip from every word. “Looking forward to our first kiss.”
I don’t wait for her response. Whatever she’s about to say through the wall isn’t relevant right now. I turn away, walking toward the bathroom, already thinking about the cold shower I should take—but knowing damn well it’s not going to be cold.
Fuck, that woman gets under my skin. And not in the way I’m used to. Her voice, her laugh, hell, even her annoying holiday cheer—it’s like a fucking itch I can’t scratch. And then there’s the fact that I can’t stop thinking about her mouth. What it would feel like, taste like. The way those lips would part when I finally kiss her—when I finally shut her up with more than just words.
I step into the bathroom, my cock already hard at the thought of her. Shit. The only remedy for this is a long, hot shower—and if I end up thinking about her mouth the whole time? Well, that’s not my fault, is it?