Page 31 of Merry with Me

I give in. “Deal.” It’s a small concession, after all.

“Now, let’s go over these seating charts.” He places his arm behind me on the back of the couch, and that’s what we do. Well, that’s what I try to do. His nearness and the way his hand brushes my shoulder are driving me crazy. By the time we’re finished with the seating charts, I need a break. I need some distance. I’m sure it’s frowned upon for a lowly assistant director of marketing to seduce a staff physician. That’s what’s about to happen. I’ve never felt this kind of pull, this kind of attraction before in my life.

“Dessert,” I blurt, standing abruptly from the couch. I fumble with my tablet, turning it off and shoving it back inside my messenger bag. “It’s time for dessert. We’ve earned it.” I smile, trying to seem unaffected, but I’m sure he can tell what his nearness is doing to me.

“That’s right. Your cookie.” He smirks.

“Cookies. The sugar variety. Come on.” I don’t know why I do it, but I offer him my hand to help him stand from the couch. He doesn’t hesitate to place his hand in mine. When I try to pull away, he laces our fingers together. He looks down at our joinedhands as if he can’t understand the act of holding hands before leading us out of the room.

In the kitchen, I try to let go again, but his hold is strong. We move to the opposite side of the island where the chairs are. Before I know what’s happening, his hands are on my hips and he’s lifting me to the counter. Stepping between my thighs, which I automatically open for him, he leans in close, reaches around me to grab the container of cookies, and hands them to me.

“You made these?” he asks as I try to control my racing heart and pull the lid off the container.

“Yeah, my little sister, Brooklyn, came over Sunday after family dinner, and we made them.”

“Family dinner? Is that something you do all the time?”

“At least one Sunday a month. It used to be more, but with sports and life, we don’t always have the time to get everyone together. I have a big family.” I hold the container up for him, but he shakes his head.

“Christmas,” he says, almost affectionately. “Pick one for me.”

Reaching into the container, I grab a Christmas tree with green icing and colorful sprinkles. I hold it up to him, and my breath stalls in my lungs when he grips my wrist, leans in, and takes a huge bite. He chews, holding my gaze.

“Delicious.”

Is it hot in here?

My heart is racing, and my palms are sweaty. I’m in serious danger of this container of cookies slipping from my grip. That would be a waste, because they are yummy, if I do say so myself.

“Your turn,” he says. Before I can process his words, he moves my hand so that I can take a bite of the same cookie he just bit.

In. The. Same. Spot.

Even with my shock, I still open wide and take a bite of the same cookie. Oliver grabs the container, maybe sensing I’m about to drop them all over his pristine kitchen floor, and sets the rest of the uneaten cookies on the counter. He then proceeds to swipe his thumb across my lips.

“Crumb,” he whispers, leaning in close.

“Th-Thanks.”

“Your eyes are beautiful.” Another brush of his thumb, this time over my cheek.

“Yours too,” I say stupidly. What is it about this man that fries my brain? I’m Blakely Kincaid. Ialwayshave something to say. “I should get going.” If I’m not mistaken, there’s disappointment in his gaze, but it’s gone before my Oliver-fogged brain can fully define it.

“Let me have your keys, and I’ll go start your car for you.”

“You don’t have to do that. I have remote start.”

“Then I’ll remote start it for you.” His hands land on my hips for a second time in a matter of minutes, and he lifts me from the counter but doesn’t step back. Instead, he lets my body slide down the length of his.

Is that…? Is he hard? For me? It’s definitely time to go.

On shaking legs, I move back to the living room. I can feel his presence right behind me. My hand trembles as I reach into my bag and find my keys and hand them to him.

He leans in close, his lips next to my ear and his hand on the small of my back. “Thank you.” When he steps away, I immediately miss his warmth, and I stand here like a lovesick fool, watching him move to the window, pull back the curtain, and point the remote at my car. I should tell him he didn’t need to go to the window. Chances are, it would have started from here, but I can’t seem to find my voice.

When he turns to face me, I quickly avert my gaze, grab my bag, and move to the front door. I need to get out of here.

“Did you not bring a coat?” His brow is furrowed.