Page 42 of No Room in the Inn
I roll my eyes. “It’s a Santa dress.” I hesitate, still watching him in case he keels over dead all of a sudden, but he really does seem to be okay. “Can you help me with the zipper?” I say.
There’s no mistaking the way Nixon’s eyes darken as they glide slowly over me, no mistaking the flash of heat in his gaze or the roughness of his voice when he says, “Absolutely.”
And suddenly—verysuddenly—it isverywarm in this kitchen. Is he baking something, maybe? Besides me, I mean?
I turn my back to him slowly, my unhelpful brain choosing this moment to point out that Nixon is about to see the bare skin of my back, as well as the exposed portion of my lacy red bra.
I know it’s silly, because no one but me ever sees my underwear and bra, but I like my clothes to match—undergarments included. It makes me feel pretty.
I hear Nixon hop down from the counter, hear him breathing as he comes to stand right behind me. I realize that I’m holding my breath, and I force myself to inhale and exhale normally. Because it’s not like he makes me nervous. I can breathe. I’mgoodat breathing. Excellent, even. I’m an excellent breather.
Nixon slowly pulls my hair out of the way, his fingers brushing the back of my neck.
And suddenly my brain is malfunctioning.
“I’m an excellent breather,” I blurt out, my words echoing throughout the kitchen. Then I clamp my hands over my mouth.
Becausefor the love. What wasthat? What does it even mean? Who says that?
I’ll tell you who says that. People without brains. People who get so nervous that random phrases pop out.
Nixon chuckles, a quiet little sound. “Do I make you nervous, Willow?”
Sure; that’s cool. Go ahead and read my mind again. I don’t dignify his question with a response, mainly because I’m a very bad liar.
Luckily—or maybe unluckily—he doesn’t seem to require an answer. He begins to speak again. “I would ask if you’ve been naughty or nice this year, but…” he says in a low voice, trailing off. His fingers graze my bare skin, leaving a trail of fire as he slowly,slowlypulls the zipper up. Shivers race up my spine as my body erupts in goosebumps that I sincerely hope he doesn’t notice.
“But?” I manage to get out. It’s a raspy whisper that hides absolutely nothing about how I’m feeling right now. So that’s great.
“But I think the answer is pretty obvious,” he says. When the zipper is in place, he doesn’t move, and neither do I.
Because I can’t. I physically don’t think I’m capable of so much as raising an eyebrow right now.
I hear Nixon shift where he stands, and I’m not surprised when I feel his hot breath on my ear. “Lovethe boots,” he whispers.
I swallow. I’m frozen, but I have to break this spell he has me under, this inexplicable attraction that makes absolutely no sense. I don’tlikethis man. He doesn’t like me either. So what is this?
Using every ounce of willpower I possess, I step forward, away from him. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and clear my throat. Then I turn around to face him.
“Is it too much?” I ask. I can’t meet his eyes, nor do I want to. Because I can’t guess what I’ll see there, and I’m not ready to find out. I look instead at his forehead.
Nixon cocks one brow. “Too much?”
And heaven help me, but his voice is deep and hoarse and tells me exactly how affected he was by that little exchange.
“Too much,” I repeat. “I’m going for Santa’s little helper. Not Santa’s little”—I wiggle my brows suggestively—“helper.”
He grins. “You can be my little—”
“All right,” I say, cutting him off, my cheeks heating even more than they already have. “You’re clearly the wrong person to ask about this. I’ll ask Sarah.”
And, as if I conjured her, Sarah suddenly appears at the entrance to the kitchen, carrying Flora in her arms. “Ask me what?”
“Is it too much? Do I look like a Mrs. Claus…you know.” I lower my voice to a whisper, glancing at Flora. “A Mrs. Claus lady of the night?” I turn to show Sarah the outfit.
“You look like a Mrs. Clausbabe,” Sarah says, putting Flora down and unwinding the scarf from around her neck. “No, really,” she says when I give her a skeptical look. “I’m serious. It’s not too much.”
“Oh, good,” I say, sighing with relief. I trust Sarah; she would tell me if it was bad.
