Page 159 of The Christmas Trap

At least, I stood up to him. If only I hadn’t spoiled my grand exit by going through the wrong door.

A few more minutes pass. The overhead lights switch off, leaving me in complete darkness. I’m not scared though. It’s comforting to be able to take the weight off my feet and sit here, surrounded by boxes of food and meat and vegetables, and that curious scent which is a mishmash of many things and smells like nothing. My heartbeat slowly settles. The adrenaline fades. I yawn and close my eyes. I’m so tired that, despite the chill wrapping around my shoulders like a cloak, I fall asleep.

When the door to the freezer opens again, I’m so startled, I fall off the crate and onto the floor. I hit my tailbone and whimper before looking up from where I'm sprawled on the floor. The fluorescent lights flicker on, bathing the figure silhouetted in the doorway in a bluish light. It picks out blue tints in his dark hair which I don’t think I noticed before.

I take in the breadth of his shoulders. He’s so tall, the top of his head seems to brush the ceiling. My boss is a handsome mofo, no question. And he has the bad attitude to go with it. He’s a Grade-A arse. A bloody crumblehead. A Count Crankula. A pickled in self-importance meatball.Ha.I swallow down my chuckle.

At least, I haven’t lost the ability to see the lighter side of things.

He stalks toward me, pulls up another overturned crate and sits on it. Then he jerks his head toward my seat. I rise to my feet, resist the urge to rub at my smarting backside, and sink onto my box.

"How long have I been in here?" I clear my throat.

"Almost half an hour."

Damn, it felt like two hours. My back feels stiff. And my legs seem to have gone to sleep.

"Were you planning to come out any time soon?" His voice is husky and rumbly and sets off little sparks in my belly. I have got to stop noticing my boss’s obvious physical attributes. Besides, he’s my friend Phe’s brother. So, I definitely can’t objectify him. And let's not forget, I hate this man.

"I’m good," I belie my words with a shiver. My feet are so cold, I can barely feel them. I shove my hands under my armpits in anattempt to warm them. Hunch in my shoulders to contain my body heat. Despite my best efforts, another tremor overtakes my body.

He frowns. Then unbuttons his chef’s jacket and shrugs it off his powerful shoulders. I did not look at how it caught on his massive biceps or how he had to peel it off. I did not notice how thick his fingers are or how broad his hands are.

"Here." He hands me his jacket.

"I d-don’t n-n-need th-that." Of course, my attempt at being firm is spoiled by my chattering teeth.

He merely drops it around my shoulders, then tugs the front over my arms.

Instantly, it feels like I’m being enveloped in his body heat. And that scent of his, like burnt sugar and the clean heat of sea salt, overpowers me.

I fill my lungs with the heady scent. Then realize what I’ve done. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice it. Maybe, it’s because I feel a little vulnerable after that outburst. That’s why I’m so aware of him.

"So, what was that about?" He nods in the direction of the kitchen.

I look away. I’m not going to pretend I don’t know what he means.

"I didn’t mean to lose my temper," I finally say.

"Sure, you did."

There’s so much conviction in his voice, I jerk my chin in his direction. He’s watching me from under hooded eyelids, an assessing quality about his gaze.

He’s surveying me like he does the ingredients of a dish he’s going to put together. Measuring, planning, tracing the different steps in the process. Imagining how the final result will look.

It’s clinical and focused. Like he’s seeing through the walls I’ve put up between me and the world.

"What?" I scowl, forgetting I resolved not to challenge this man again. Though it doesn’t matter, considering he’s probably not going to be my boss anymore.

"What got you so riled up that you snapped?"

My jaw drops. I cough. "You don’t hold back do you?

"Life’s too short to not say what you’re thinking."

"Is that your personal philosophy? Is that why you’re always so unfiltered?" At least, I got to ask him one of the questions I’ve always had about him.

The light shifts in his eyes. He stares at me steadily. I shift my weight, trying to find a more comfortable position. Even my arse is cold. I tug his jacket closer, glad for its cover.