Page 74 of Elf-ish

And who the fuck is her groom?

I only see red. Not the vibrant, joyful color of the holiday but scorching, angry crimson.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Angelica. Not since the moment my eyes opened on that stretcher, and she was the first thing I saw. Those summer-blue eyes. That rope of hair. And that freckle. She’s infiltrated my waking moments, like this morning when I woke early and just stared at her. And, my sleeping ones, when a vivid dream of touching her again, filling her with more than my fingers and tongue, woke me.

And I’ll be fucking damned to Santa’s permanent naughty list for my next thoughts, but I cannot get them out of my head.

“When are you planning to get married?” With my hand still on her throat, I stroke my thumb along her neck, feeling for her pulse, finding she’s settled the tears, but her blood begins to pump at the talk of a wedding. Her wedding.

My voice is rough as I struggle to remain calm, but my pulse accelerates the more I envision her waiting on a groom. Some faceless twat who won’t appreciate her. Her ability to sacrifice for others. Her lack of care for herself first. He won’t put her first in his life.

But I will.

The thought hits so hard, I still my thumb.

“Only in my head,” she whispers, and it takes me a second to jump back to the question I’d asked her.

Relief washes through me like a slow trickling river. One released after being frozen for the winter.

With that awakening, also comes snark. “You just tell me what the date is, and The Oak Room is yours.”

She can have that beautiful room with its crystal chandelier and ballroom-like setting on one condition.

“Why?” she chuckles, but the sound is bitter, contrasting her typically cheery voice. “Because we’re friends? Because I saved your life?”

The twinge of sarcasm hammers home my condition. Not because we’re friends. Not because she saved my life. Because I cannot stand the thought of her marrying someone.

Anyone.

Other than me.

I don’t have the slightest idea where the thought comes from. I don’t believe in love or commitment. But I also don’t take the time to unpack this sudden scratch clawing at my chest, at the thought of her with someone else.

I don’t answer her questions, reasoning why I’d give her the room for a wedding.

Instead, I state my demand, “The only condition is that I be your date.”

Angelica pulls her head off my shoulder and spins to face me. I don’t move back, remaining in her space. Her breasts brush my chest as I lean forward, setting my hands back on the washing machine behind her.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she begins. Her saucer-like eyes ping back and forth between mine. “I wouldn’t need a date for my own wedding. My date would be my groom.”

I let her answer linger between us.

Yep, I’ll be her permanent date to weddings. Her brothers or hers . . . I won’t be choosy.

“Jude.” Her brows form a deep V between them while that soft voice crushes all my resolve.

I’m talked out, and I need her not to ask any more questions because I don’t have answers. Not yet. I cannot explain myself, so I do another thing I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

I kiss her. Take those lips that have made a permanent impression on mine, leaving me hungry for more. I want to feel her tongue against mine, and I slip mine forward to do just that, savoring the sweetness in how they tangle together.

Last night she wouldn’t let me kiss her, but today I cannot help myself.

Sweet relief, like that cold river running faster, fills me again when she gives in and kisses me back. I lean forward, pressing the sudden hard length of my cock against her, dipping my knees the slightest bit to line us up.

She gasps in my mouth, and I grip her hips, lifting her on top of the washing machine to better line us up.

I don’t want her thinking about her brother’s wedding. Or her own. I only want her thinking about me and what I can do for her. What I want to do with her.