“Jonathan and I are co-managers, Trey. And while our relationship is none of your business, I’ll tell you this much—he’s ten times the person you are. Now fuck off, and have yourself a miserable little Christmas.”
Storming past my piece-of-garbage ex, I start down the sidewalk. Jonathan falls into step with me, twice glancing menacingly over his shoulder, most likely to scare the hell out of Trey so he doesn’t follow me. We don’t speak as we walk the block between Bailey’s and where Trey stopped me. When we reach the shop, Jonathan unlocks the front door, then holds it open so I can enter first.
“Thank you,” I tell him quietly.
Before he can respond, I power walk to the back room, yanking off my mittens, unwinding my scarf, blinking away threatening tears.
Fucking Trey. Telling me that I’m na?ve and idealistic. That I can’t save this place. I’ll show him. I have to.
There’s a soft knock against wood nearby, and I know why. After my scare, Jonathan’s being considerate, not wanting to startle me. Gone is my chilly, surly nemesis, and in his place stands someone who I told Trey is ten times the person he is.
And I meant it.
Because I simply cannot believe that Jonathan Frost would come running my way and throw himself bodily between me and the threat of harm, then turn around and try to seduce, swindle, or sabotage me out of a career.
Which, I realize, after all these months of hating his guts, is a profound relief. Despising someone is exhausting, and believing the worst in them is a burden to the soul. I didn’t realize how tired it made me, until now, like peeling off frigid soaked clothes after a long day in the snow, I feel a weight lift, the warmth of tentative hope wrapped around me.
I’m not exactly sure what I think of Jonathan. Not yet. I only know that what I’ve thought of him doesn’t fit what I just experienced. I know he stuck up for me and protected me and you don’t do that for someone whose life and job you want to ruin.
Beyond that, I don’t know what to think.
What I do know is this turn of events unfortunately takes the wind out of my sails with the wardrobe choice today. Now this dress isn’t vengefully sexy. It’s just…sexy. And I’m pretty sure after kissing each other the way we did last night, looking sexy for Jonathan Frost is a not-so-good idea.
“Gabriella.” Quiet and low, Jonathan’s voice dances like a lover’s fingertip straight down my spine.
“Yes,” I manage.
“Are you all right?”
Standing with my back to him, I keep my coat on and stare at the wall.
Am I all right? No. I’m not. My shithole ex just scared the hell out of me and defended his invasive behavior. Jonathan came running to defend me. And now I’m standing in the tiny back room with nothing but a wool coat keeping Jonathan Frost from seeing me in The Very Sexy Red Dress. I’m standing here, my heart pounding, because my world’s rearranging, because despite my deepest desire to keep Jonathan Frost in the tidy box of enmity wrapped in a bow of prideful dislike, he punched a hole in that box last night, then obliterated it entirely this morning.
Now I have…nothing. Not enmity, not arm’s angry length, not even a wool coat or a red dress or skin and bones, guarding my heart from him.
And I have to face that. I have to face him.
So, sliding off my coat, turning toward Jonathan, I do.
Chapter 9
Playlist: “Merry Christmas （I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight），” Alex Lahey
“Gabriella,” Jonathan says again, gentler, patient, as I start to turn and face him. “I asked if you’re…” His voice dies off. His gaze slides down my body like it’s beyond helping, before he shuts his eyes and drops his head against the doorway with an audible thunk. “Jesus Christ.”
“It’s a little much for work,” I admit, staring down at the flowy red fabric, biting my lip. “Okay it’s a lotta much for work.”
Jonathan’s so quiet.
“You okay over there?” I ask.
“I asked you first,” he says through a tight jaw.
His eyes are still shut, his dark hair windblown and messy, a flush high on his cheeks. He breathes deeply through his nose, and his jaw tics with each breath. My gaze travels the evergreen V-neck sweater hugging his strong arms and broad chest, draping just a little at his waist, leaving me to imagine the pleasure of my hands traveling that soft fabric and the hard, unyielding muscle beneath.
His hands are fists in the pockets of his buckskin brown slacks, tailored perfectly to a gloriously hard ass and long muscular legs, the classic powerful build of a hockey player. His polished brown boots wink under the store’s lights. He looks as good as he ever has, no—better. He looks fine as hell.