Mrs. Bailey seems to read my mind, as if she knows a thing or two about what it’s like to walk the line between longing and loathing and try to carve a safe path between the two, to find a smooth, mild middle way.
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it? In the spirit of the season?” she adds, a twinkle in her eye. “To have a little peace on earth here in Bailey’s Bookshop?”
I envision proposing friendship to Jonathan, laying down my weapon first, extending my hand as I offer a truce. I remember how it felt, his hand clasping mine. My fingertips and palms turn hot, singed with memory.
Privately, I reflect that “peace,” whether we turn out friend or foe, is the last thing I’ll ever find with Jonathan Frost. But what I tell Mrs. Bailey is, “I’ll try. I promise.”
Chapter 10
Playlist: “Make Way for the Holidays,” Le Bon
An hour later, Mrs. Bailey is gone and the store is forty-five minutes into being open. I’ve sold two romance novels, one cozy mystery, and—gag—three thrillers. The place is empty for the time being, and I’m on my way to make a cup of sugary, milky tea, when I notice the mistletoe fell from the archway leading from the register to the back room. Stretching on tiptoe, I tack it back up by its golden thread.
That’s when the back door opens for Jonathan Frost and with him, a gust of winter wind. He shuts it quietly, then peers up beneath dark lashes, those striking wintergreen eyes locked on me. I lower to my heels as Jonathan walks down the hallway, a beverage cup decorated with snowflakes in each hand.
“I’m sorry,” we say at the same time.
“Can we talk?” I ask.
Jonathan searches my eyes. “Yes.”
I wrap my hand around the cup he’s holding that smells like peppermint and bittersweet chocolate. Our fingers brush. “I think I could use some liquid courage first.”
His mouth lifts at the corner, the shadow of a smile. “You’re in luck then.”
“Thank you.” Glancing over my shoulder, I see the store is still empty. I peer back at Jonathan and tip my head toward the break room. “Is now okay? Do you mind?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t mind.”
I lead the way to the back room, hot cocoa in hand, and sit at the table, watching him set down his coffee, then peel off his gloves, finger by finger. He shrugs off his coat, and it slips past his shoulders, down his back, before he rakes a hand through his hair and tidies the windswept waves.
Sitting across from me, Jonathan takes his cup, which I didn’t realize I’d wrapped my hand around. His thumb brushes my finger, a reassurance.
“Thanks again for this,” I tell him.
“You’re welcome, Gabriella.”
I take a drink of my peppermint hot cocoa. Jonathan sips his coffee. We sit in silence, steam wafting from our drinks.
Until I find my courage and say, “I’m not excellent at reading people, and…recent events have led me to believe that for quite a while, maybe since you started here, I’ve been thoroughly misreading you. And because of that, I’ve maybe, potentially, been slightly more hostile than warranted.” I clear my throat and extend my hand. “So, I want to apologize for that and propose friendship.”
Jonathan’s brow furrows as he glances at my hand.
Silence hangs, colder than the outside air that followed him in on his return. My hand starts to waver, as does my courage. But just when I start to retreat, he clasps it, his grip warm and strong. Relief rushes through me, glittering like sunlight on snow and tinsel on tree boughs.
Jonathan’s thumb strokes the back of my hand as he says, “I appreciate that. And I’m sorry, too.” His mouth tips at the corner. “I’ve also, maybe, potentially, been slightly more hostile than warranted.”
“Friendship?” I ask. His thumb’s driving me wild. I cross my legs under the table and focus on the matter at hand.
“Friendship,” he says.
“Great.” I wrench away my hand more abruptly than I meant to, but friends don’t get horny from hand-holding, and I’ve got to get this under control. “Excellent. Friendship it is.”
Tipping his head, Jonathan wraps his big hands around his coffee. I should get a sainthood for how I stop myself from staring at those long fingers and how they curl around the cup. “What you said, before I left—”
“That was harsh of me.” My cheeks heat. “I got carried away.”
“Gabriella,” he says quietly, his foot nudging mine under the table. “Let me finish.”