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When Willow presses her palm to my cheek, it takes everything in me not to lean into it.
She murmurs, almost to herself. “Grumpy, kindhearted man.”
Then Willow’s thumb sweeps over my cheekbone, and I can’t help it. My eyes fall closed with a shuddered exhale.
After hours of rigorous training—my whole life, really—ever since my father put me on skates at two, I’ve taught my body what it can and shouldn’t do. When to react. When to wait. When to push harder. All of that and I can’t resist a simple caress.
“Let’s find some planters you don’t hate.”
My lashes fly open at Willow’s breathy voice, but she’s already striding away. After a few steps, she glances over her shoulder, almost helplessly, almost as if she feels this incessant pull too. My knuckles rub the center of my chest when our gazes lock, my heart suddenly too big for my body. Willow’s focus slides down to my hand, her lips parting slightly…
And that’s when everything goes sideways.
Willow careens straight into a shelved rack of cut glassware.
I surge forward, steadying the rack with one hand and catching a large pitcher before it crashes to the floor. Willow gasps, jerking sideways and unintentionally dropping her large purse. It skitters across the floor, smacking into a stack of old newspapers topped with a rusty typewriter.
We glance at each other. The tarnished keys teeter for two halting breaths before they miraculously stop. Willow makes a relieved sound, smiling like she just made off with a dozen contraband cookies. A snort leaves my nose, my lips slowly tugging upward.
We grin at each other for a heartbeat before the energy between us shifts.
Intense buzzing careens down my spine when Willow’s gaze slides to my mouth, her smile fading. It’s only then that I realize how close we are. With her sandwiched between me and the rack, I’ve unintentionally boxed her in, one arm over her head.
Before I can shift away, Willow’s fingertips raise to trace the collar of my shirt, stalling on the undone button. It’s impossible to breathe, to swallow, to think with her fingers at the hollow of my throat. Willow’s lashes flutter, but I command myself not to move.
I don’t want to get things wrong again.
Willow needs to show me she wants this as much as I do.
She drifts closer, raising on her tiptoes, just as the stack of newspapers shifts.
Our necks snap in the direction of the movement a second before the typewriter loses its battle with gravity.
“Here.” I hand Willow the glass pitcher before diving to catch the typewriter.
Unfortunately, my momentum nudges the boots of the human-sized nutcracker, sending it toppling. I have just enough time to set down the typewriter and roll to the left to catch the tights-wearing behemoth. Elbows bracing the ground, I stop the nutcracker before its bearded face smacks me in the nose.
I wait for more mayhem to ensue, but all I can hear is Willow’s boisterous laughter.
“I’m sorry.” Willow’s apology escapes between guffaws.
Looking over, I find her bent halfway over in a fit of giggles, her phone pointed in my direction.
“Are you filming me?”
“Yes.” Her answer is barely a squeak. “It’s too funny not to.”
A groan escapes me before I glance at the black soulless eyes of the wooden figure three inches from my face. With his jaw slightly ajar, it almost looks like he’s leaning in for a kiss. Make that gunning for a real make-out session with the way he’s draped over me, chest to toes.
Whoa, buddy. Buy me dinner first.
I grunt.
None of this is what I had planned for my day off. I don’t like antiquing in claustrophobic stores or rescuing over-amorous figurines. A harsh exhale leaves my nose before the most unexpected thing happens.
A snicker bubbles up my throat.
It’s almost like the first spurt of water breaching a dam. The snicker shifts into a chuckle which cascades into a genuine laugh. Then I’m cracking up, my abs clenching as I momentarily lose my breath. Meanwhile, all my laughter causes the nutcracker to bounce, which only sets Willow off again.
