Resting his body weight on one forearm, he took his opposite hand and wiped the tears from my left cheek.
I turned my head to break our kiss. “Don’t.”
“I’m not stopping.” He kissed the wet trail of tears along my other cheek. “But there’s nothing about you I can ignore.”
Taking his face in my hands, I made him look at me. I didn’t know what I was searching for or what I wanted to say until the words came out on their own. “Make me feel …” I whispered.
He kissed along my collarbone to the hollow of my neck. “Feel what?”
“Just …” I closed my eyes, raking my hands through his hair and down his back. “Feel …”
He made me feel wanted.
He made me feel sexy.
He made me feel alive.
But mostly … he made me feel a little found.
After I played with my sex toy—the term I needed to remember to keep things in perspective because I had love and commitment ingrained in my sappy little forty-two-year-old heart—I hid in the corner of his bedroom with my back to him while I dressed.
“The uh … baggage comment. I wasn’t trying to be insensitive. The prospect of going out of business had me a little salty.”
I glanced over my shoulder as I buttoned my gray, fitted pants.
He tucked in his red tee. “I’m just saying that if you need me to carry like … one bag, or just hold it for a minute, I can do that.”
Pausing for a moment, I nodded. “You want to know why I was crying.”
“I’m saying you can tell me—if you want. I can listen. Probably can’t solve a damn thing. But I’m not a total asshole. So …”
“Thank you.” I found a tiny but genuine smile. “I’m good for now.”
“Cool. So …” He rubbed his sexy lips together and prowled toward me. “About our working relationship …”
I anticipated his hands finding my waist or maybe sliding around my neck to gently guide my head and my gaze to him.
Nope.
He clasped his hands behind his back and drew in a long breath. A really long breath. Then he held it for an impossibly long time.
After a few seconds, I realized my breathing was on pause as well.
“Business is business. Right? I mean … that’s why you allowed your friend to put on such a pathetic and cringe-worthy display at my store. Correct?”
Where was he going? I blinked a few times, biting the inside of my cheek. “I made a poor decision in the moment—fueled by anger and frustration. I tried to stop her, but it was too late.”
“Anger? Why were you angry?”
I brushed past him toward the bedroom door. “Don’t act so innocent. You stole my Santa.”
“My dad?”
I turned halfway down the hallway, Kael just feet behind me. “The costume.” My eyes narrowed.
“My sick neighbor offered me the costume. Honestly, I said no at first because I knew he was supposed to be at your shop. But then we thought it would be a win-win to have him wear it and split the day between our two businesses. Your afternoon seemed to be better than my morning.”
“You should have told me! Why would you not call or drop in quickly to tell me the plan?”
His hesitation and the ghost of something ornery or deviant that crossed his face gave away his true intention.
“You were trying to get a reaction out of me. You wanted me to be upset so you could make me eat crow when your dad came to my store after allowing me to think the worst of you. You were just asking for me to behave badly.”
He played me.
He played me, and he did it while looking like the victim and then the hero.
His mouth twisted. “I toyed with you—a tiny bit. But you crossed a serious line to the dark side.”
“Toyed with me?” I jabbed my finger into his chest, revenge constricting my pupils. “You are the sex toy, not me.”
Toy. I meant to say toy. Only toy. I was the cat. He was the crippled mouse. I was the puppeteer. He was the puppet.
No sex. Why did my mouth let my brain win?
He lit up like the town square Christmas tree. “Damn … I think I love being your sex toy. I like your face red and your hands balled at your sides. Is that wrong?”
“Yes. It’s wrong and sadistic. Not a sex toy. You’re a pet toy.” I turned and stomped to the front door, plucking my jacket off the floor while stabbing my feet into my boots.
“No. You said sex toy. I have good hearing. I heard you perfectly.” Complete delight and an arrogant tone of victory carried his words.
“You’re a guy. You heard what you wanted to hear. And all things translate to sex for you. It’s not your fault that you’re genetically wired to think about sex all day long.” I reached for the door handle.