Chapter 11
ELEVEN
GREER
Brenton is still pressed against me, one hand braced on the shelf near my head, the other resting on my thigh as if it’s the most natural place in the world. His forehead touches mine. His breathing is rough, uneven, matching mine.
He laughs under his breath, the sound low and disbelieving. “We really just did that,” he murmurs.
I laugh too, soft and shaky. “Yeah. We did.”
He shifts just enough to pull back and look at me. Really look at me. His eyes are warm and dark and full of something that steals the strength from my knees.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod. Then shake my head. Then nod again. “My brain is soup.”
His mouth curves into something soft. “Good soup or bad soup?”
“Good,” I say. Then quickly, “Really good.”
His thumb brushes my cheekbone like he’s memorizing the feeling of my skin. That single touch is enough to bring heat rushing back through my body.
But this isn’t the same heat we had minutes ago.
This is deeper.
Lower.
More dangerous.
Because this is the part where feelings live.
Brenton swallows, glancing down like he’s gathering courage. “Greer…earlier. When I said I needed time—it wasn’t because I didn’t want you.”
“I know,” I whisper, even though I didn’t know. Not fully.
“It was because I’ve screwed things up before,” he says. “Because I kept thinking you deserved someone who could be there all the time. Someone who doesn’t get called away in the middle of dinner or disappear into emergencies or miss holidays.”
“Brenton—”
“I thought I’d disappoint you,” he says. His voice cracks, just barely. “And the thought of disappointing you made me pull away. But then I nearly lost my mind when I thought you were hurt. And I realized…” His breath shudders. “I’m already in this. Whether I deserve you or not.”
My chest tightens painfully.
“Brenton,” I whisper, touching his jaw. “You don’t disappoint me. You scare me sometimes, sure. With how much I feel for you. But that’s not the same thing.”
He freezes. “How much you feel?”
Oh God.
The words slipped out before I could catch them, and now they’re hanging in the air between us, glowing and fragile.
He cups my cheek, breath shallow. “Greer…you feel a lot?”
“I do,” I say. Quiet but certain. “More than I expected to. More than I planned to.”
His eyes close for one heartbeat—just one—and when they open again, something unguarded shines through.
“I feel a lot too,” he says.
My breath leaves me all at once. Like he punched the air out of my lungs but in a way that’s warm and dizzying.
He smiles faintly, brushing hair from my face. “And now I don’t want time. I just want you.”
The words hit so deep my hands actually shake.
But before I can respond—
The storage room door rattles violently.
We both jump.
“Oh my GOD, are you two alive in there?” Holt’s voice echoes through the door. “Someone said they heard a noise. I said it was definitely you knocking boxes off shelves in a passionate embrace, but apparently we have to check for safety.”
Brenton groans into my shoulder. “I’m going to kill him.”
I cover my face with both hands. “We cannot open that door.”
“Greer,” Holt singsongs, “don’t make me use my master key. I will open this door, and I promise neither of us wants that.”
I slide off the table so fast I nearly trip over my own clothing.
Brenton catches my elbow, steadying me, his mouth brushing my temple in a quick, secret kiss that feels more intimate than anything we’ve done tonight.
He whispers, “Later,” with a promise that sends heat shooting up my spine.
I tug my sweater halfway into place, try to look less like someone who just got thoroughly kissed (and more), and pull open the door.
Holt stands there with a clipboard and the most judgmental eyebrows I’ve ever witnessed. He opens his mouth—
Brenton shuts the door in his face.
I choke on a laugh, turning toward him. “You can’t do that.”
“It was automatic,” he says. “He’ll live.”
I’m still laughing when he takes my hand.
His thumb strokes across my knuckles, grounding me.
“Come with me tomorrow,” he says softly. “After shift. After storm cleanup. We’ll talk. Really talk. No interruptions.”
My heart squeezes. “Okay.”
“And…I want to tell you something then,” he adds. His gaze flicks down, suddenly shy. “Something important.”
A shiver runs through me.
He leans in, kissing me once, slow and tender, like sealing a promise.
Then he steps back.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
I watch him leave, feeling lightheaded and breathless and stunned.
When I turn back toward the storage room, something catches my eye.
My staff cubby.
A new envelope.
Cream-colored.
No bow.
Just my name.
Not Secret Santa wrapping.
Something else.
My stomach flips as I take it and unfold the card.
Brenton’s handwriting.
Just three words:
I choose you.