Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
Rob
“I feel ridiculous.”
Whitney laughs at me, her hands on her hips. “You’re wearing a Santa costume that’s decades old and at least ten sizes too big. I can’t believe your expectation was anything but looking ridiculous.”
“It’s not supposed to fit because there has to be room for padding. It won’t look ridiculous on Jerry.”
“Wait. Jerry, the guy who signed the waiver form for the hardware store?”
“Yes. That Jerry.”
“Is he even capable of holding up the amount of padding he’ll need to fill this out?”
I nod, making the bell on the Santa hat’s pompom ring. “He’s thin, but he’s very strong. Wiry as hell, according to him. But anyway, is there anything else in the tote? Where’s the belt?”
“There’s no point in putting on the belt,” she mutters as she digs through the plastic tote. “We’d have to wrap it around you four times. There’s a?—”
Her mouth snaps shut when she pulls out a short, green minidress with candy cane buttons. I’d forgotten the sexy elf dress was still around.
She turns to face me, holding up the dress. “I am not wearing this.”
I try not to picture her wearing it because it feels wrong to have an erection while dressed as Santa. “Oh, come on. Every Santa needs an elf, Whitney.”
“No.”
I sigh dramatically. “Fine, but if you’re not going to be an elf, then you have to wear the sweater.”
She’s fighting to keep her expression blank while avoiding direct eye contact. “What sweater?”
“You know I bought that ugly Christmas sweater for you. You do not overlook details, Ms. Forrester.”
“I prefer pretending it doesn’t exist.”
“If you don’t wear the sweater for the fair as one of the official organizers, then I bought it for no reason.” I shrug, holding up my hands. “That means you’ll be aiding and abetting me in my misappropriation of Santa Fund money.”
“Fine, Rob. I’ll wear the ugly sweater.” She tosses the elf dress aside and pulls a black belt with a huge silver buckle out of the tote. “I own shirts longer than that dress. Hell, I think there’s more fabric in this belt.”
“Full disclosure—that elf costume was retired at least thirty years ago because one, it’s undeniably inappropriate. But also, it’s not exactly warm. We keep it, though, because they were made as a set.”
“So you tricked me into agreeing to wear that sweater?”
“I can’t hear you with this Santa hat sliding down over my ears. Jerry must have a bigger head than I do.”
“That seems unlikely.” But she’s smiling when she says it, so I know she’s not mad about the sweater. “Okay, let’s look and see if you’re coming unraveled anywhere.”
It doesn’t take long to realize I’ve made a mistake. Making an examination of the Santa suit into a fun game of dress-up with Whitney had sounded fun. But I seriously underestimated how much havoc her being so close to me would wreak on my senses.
Because the suit is baggy, she isn’t actually running her hands over my body as she checks each seam. Instead, it’s all tantalizing hints of contact and the teasing pressure of her touch through the thick fabric.
Whitney checks all the seams in the jacket, seemingly oblivious to the fact she’s slowly killing me.
It’s my own fault. I could have done this by myself, by taking the suit out of the tote and hanging it up to air out before the parade. It would have been simple enough to look it over on a hanger. But I wanted to spend as much time as I could with Whitney—best accomplished by stretching out the fair preparations—so I brought this torture down on myself.
She’s getting it done with her usual brisk efficiency until she crouches to check the seam down the outside of my right leg. My instinct is to step away, but I’m afraid she’ll fall over.
Luckily, she stands and gives a hard shake of her head. Her cheeks are flushed and she’s not meeting my gaze, so maybe she’s not as unaffected by the close contact as I thought.
“You don’t actually have to be wearing the suit for me to do this,” she says. “I’ll check the pants after you take them off.”
Since it feels as if the temperature in the room has risen about twenty degrees in the last few minutes, it’ll be a relief to get out of the heavy costume.
Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done. “Whitney, the zipper’s stuck.”
“Don’t force it! We don’t want to rip the coat this close to the parade.” She pushes my hands away. “Let me see it.”
Whitney fiddles with the zipper while I stare at a spot on the wall over the top of her head and try not to smell her hair. She’s so intent on the zipper, I don’t think she realizes a person would be hard-pressed to slide a piece of cardboard between our bodies.
I realize it, though. It’s taking every ounce of self-control I can muster to keep my dick from popping up and joining the conversation. I’m afraid we’re close enough so she’d be able to feel it.
“Whoever cleaned and fluffed the fake fur trim did such a good job it’s all caught up in the zipper,” she tells me. “You need to sit down so I can see it better.”
I’m relieved for the all of thirty seconds it takes for her to step away and for me to sit in a chair. Then she’s standing between my knees and the hint of cleavage in the vee of her blouse is the only thing in my line of vision.
Rob Byrne, do NOT put your hands on her waist.
Along with using my sternest inner voice on myself, I ball my hands into fists. She’s only this close to me because she’s trying to help me, and I can’t take advantage of that by putting my hands on her.
Pressing the palms of my hands flat on the tops of my thighs, I close my eyes and try to breathe normally. It’s not easy, and I hope I don’t pass out. That would be awkward to explain to her, plus there’s the possibility Whitney panics and calls 9-1-1. That would certainly be a mess.
“I think I’ve got it,” she mutters. “But I’ll have to work out a way to keep the fluff out of the zipper or it’s going to keep happening. Okay, stand up.”
I’m launched into yet another cycle of relief followed by oh no, this is worse because Whitney’s pushing the coat off of my shoulders and, in guiding the heavy fabric, she has her arms around me.
I know the exact second Whitney realizes the position we’re in—her arms capturing me while her breasts press against my chest—because she freezes. The heavy coat slides down my arms and thuds to the ground, and now my arms are free.
She doesn’t back up.
Her head tips back until I’m looking into her eyes. Then my gaze drops to her lips, which are slightly parted.
When her hands rest on my upper arms, the contact is like an electric current, energizing my body and making my arms move. In the space of a heartbeat, my hands are on her waist.
I don’t know which of us moves first, but our mouths meet and I’m kissing her like a man who’s waited his entire life to kiss the woman in his arms.
It hasn’t even been a week, actually, but it certainly feels as if I’ve been waiting my entire life.
Whitney’s hands move up my arms and over my shoulders to cup the back of my neck. One of my arms wraps around her waist, holding her tight against me, while I slide my other hand up her back.
She moans, her body arching against mine. The sound inflames me and I shift my head, deepening the kiss.
The movement causes the hat to shift on my head and the dangling bell jingles. Suddenly, she’s giggling against my mouth and then we’re both laughing, still tangled in each other’s arms.
“I’m kissing Santa Claus.” Whitney says, swiping at the bell dangling near my cheek. “This is so wrong.”
“Oh, you’re definitely on the naughty list.”
I’m about to toss the hat in the corner and resume kissing her when we hear the distinctive sound of boots coming up the old wooden stairs. Whitney moves away, reaching down to snatch the coat off the floor.
“Hey, Chief, I picked up some—” Tim lifts his head and sees Whitney. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.”
“This is Whitney Forrester. She’s helping out with the Christmas fair this year. Whitney, this is Lieutenant Tim Johnson, the guy who holds everything together with me.”
“Sure,” Tim says, reaching out to shake Whitney’s hand. “You work for Donovan, right?”
“I do. It’s nice to meet you, Tim.”
My lieutenant just met Whitney for the first time, so hopefully he won’t notice the slight tremor in her voice. And maybe he can’t see the way her neck and cheeks are a little rosier than usual. Oh, and the way her lips look as if she’s just been thoroughly kissed.
“I stopped by to help you get ready for the storm,” Tim says. “But I can come back later if you’re busy.”
“No,” Whitney says, far too quickly for my liking. “We’re done here. I’ll take the suit back to the inn and finish getting it ready for the parade. I have some other work I need to get done, too.”
I don’t want her to leave like this, but she’s backed me into a corner. There’s no way I can argue with that without cluing Tim into the fact that, yes, he’d interrupted a lot more than a business meeting.
Clearly flustered, Whitney shoves all the parts of the Santa suit back into the tote and snaps the lid on. Before I can step forward, Tim lifts it off the floor.
“I’ll carry this for you,” he says, and Whitney smiles before making sure she has her bag and her keys.
“I hope the storm goes easy on you,” she says to me, though she’s looking at my mouth and not my eyes. “I’ll be hanging around the inn once it starts because I don’t mind driving, but my winter-weather skills are a bit rusty.”
I want to say something— anything —about the kiss, but I can’t because Tim’s standing there holding a heavy tote, waiting for Whitney. I could take it from him and walk her out, but I’m not sure what I’d say and she looks eager to exit the situation.
“If you need anything, just call or shoot me a text.”
“I’ll see you after the weather clears, I guess.” And then she’s walking down the stairs with Tim behind her.
It’ll probably be Monday before I see Whitney again, and it shouldn’t feel like forever. I haven’t even known her that long. But the idea of a couple of days passing without seeing her—especially with the memory of our kiss lingering unresolved—is enough to put a serious damper on my mood.
But I know my community well enough to know some of them think having four-wheel-drive means they’re impervious to slick roads, so I need to concentrate more on the coming storm and less on kissing Whitney.