Page 30 of The Humbug Holiday

Ten days later, I think it was clear to both of us that something new had begun. What exactly, I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t overthink it. This wasn’t a big deal. I just…liked him.

A lot.

Maybe it had something to do with the amazing sex. We were voracious. The fire between us grew with every passing day. No kidding…it was hard to be in the same room with him and not want to tug those apron strings and rip his clothes off.

Funny enough, we treated each day like a new start, as though we intended to be on our best behavior. We shared a cup of coffee, whether or not he spent the night—and reset, discussing our respective plans for the day before going our separate ways. I wrote and he did repairs. I stayed out of his way, and he stayed out of mine.

But damn, we gravitated to each other like a couple of rogue magnets in a careful dance of manufactured excuses.

I’d claim to be thirsty or hungry or simply interested in his projectdu jour. Or Joe would stop by my office with a pitcher of water, claiming to worry about me letting the Christmas tree go bone-dry. He’d hum the opening refrain from “O Christmas Tree,” then turn on the lights and back out of the room like some kind of cheesy elf. And yes, that charmed the hell out of me.

“You left the lights on…again,” I groused without heat, glancing up from my computer screen.

Joe put his hands in the air and chuckled. “You love the lights. Admit it.”

I pulled my reading glasses from my nose as I rounded my desk and met him in front of the tree. Love was a strong word, but I didn’t hate it. That should have been vaguely concerning to me—however, my appreciation for the tree had more to do with it providing him with a daily excuse to interrupt me. At least that was my story, and I was sticking to it.

“They’re not displeasing,” I conceded in a lordly tone.

“Glad to hear it.” Joe snort-laughed. “I didn’t want to bug you, but the basement window is done and painted. Which leaves me with the casing in here. If this isn’t a good time, I can replace the baseboards or remove the wallpaper in the hallway. I think those items were on your short list. Let me know when you—”

“Now is fine,” I intercepted.

“You sure? ’Cause it’s gonna be a little noisy.”

“That’s okay. I’m at a good place to stop. What time is it?”

He pulled at the cuff of his plaid flannel shirt and checked his watch. “Almost three o’clock. Did you sleep at all?”

I smiled at his thoughtful once-over. He hadn’t stayed over last night and left to my own devices, I did what I always did in the wee hours of the morning. I wrote.

“Not much,” I admitted.

“Missed me, eh?” Joe winked before caressing my cheek and moving to the window.

The contrast of cocky and casual affection had me reeling for a beat. I was used to his brash swagger, but tenderness…that was new. I studied his silhouette, jealous of the fabric stretched across his broad shoulders. He was thick and muscular in all the right places. I’d always had a thing for big, strapping men who could lift heavy things. But sweetness…that had never factored into the equation.

I didn’t trust men who were effusively affectionate. They usually wanted something from me. My money, my connections. Joe was working for me, so technically, he wanted my money. He was proud, though. He wasn’t the sort of man to take what he hadn’t earned. And he definitely wasn’t interested in connecting with anyone.

And I felt the same way. I liked my solitude. No…I craved it. Sex was all well and good, but I kept my love life separate from my work.

Not now.

I invited Joe inside every day.

I kept the door cracked open to listen for his footsteps and smiled when he grumpily reminded me that somebody had to water that damn tree and he supposed it had to be him. It had become an excuse to see each other…to begin the dance that inevitably ended with me sucking his cock and fucking him senseless.

In the shower with his hands spread wide on the chipped off-white tile, on his knees in the middle of my bed, over my desk with his jeans around his ankles.

Great. And now I had a hard-on.

I clandestinely adjusted my package and joined him at the window, nodding absently when he explained that he’d crafted the replacement casing in his workshop this morning.

“I didn’t know you had a workshop. Where is it?” I asked.

Joe crouched low, using the spiked end of a tool that looked like a hammer but probably wasn’t, and yanked the warped piece of wood from the wall.

“On Spruce Street. It’s my uncle’s old place. He was the town carpenter-slash-furniture-maker back in the day. I’m more of a glorified handyman, but I learned from the best.”