Hot for the Holidays by Poppy Parkes

Author:Poppy Parkes [Parkes, Poppy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Parkes Publishing
Published: 2019-12-03T16:00:00+00:00

Ginger

“All the best women do,” Nat says, and I swear I might actually swoon. His words make me feel heady, like I’ve been drinking. And while I’d normally be developing a close and personal relationship with the bar at events like these, tonight I’ve had no desire for even a sip.

Instead, I find myself craving this man in front of me.

Which is ridiculous.

Insane.

Wishful thinking.

But when he utters those words, I suddenly think I’m not the only one wishing for something more than a friendly date at a boring holiday event.

My cheeks grow hot at the ways that I’m imagining, um, celebrating the holidays this year. I turn away from him on the pretense of grabbing another empanada to stuff in my face. They really are amazing with their maple cinnamon and nutmeg flavors melding with a hint of cumin in just the right way.

“I got my car to the shop,” I blurt out, desperate to distract myself from how good it feels to stand next to this man. “Called a tow truck, just like you suggested, and they got right to it.”

He smiles, and I swear that it feels like almost literal sunshine washing over my face.

I’ve got it bad.

“I’m so glad. Do they know anything yet?”

I shake my head, swallowing my mouthful before my nerves make me accidentally spatter Nat with masticated empanada. “Not officially. But the front of the car was barely scratched at all, with no dents, and the mechanic thinks it might just be an issue with the starter.”

“That’s great to hear. And if it is the starter, that’ll be a pretty easy fix.”

“And the mechanic says that the rental company will probably cover it, since it wasn’t caused by the accident.”

That beautiful smile grows. “Great news all around then.”

I nod. I want to hug him in gratitude — or, more accurately, straight up wrap my body around his and start grinding.

Which probably would not be the best decision.

With a virtual stranger.

At my mother’s Christmas party.

I clear my throat, feeling my face grow pink again, and opt for verbal gratitude instead. “Thank you for helping me yesterday. That whole thing could’ve gone so badly if it wasn’t for you.”

“Of course.” He shrugs. “It was the least I could do.”

“No, you could’ve kept driving. But you didn’t. And that means a lot to me. So . . .” Now it’s my turn to shrug, but it feels so awkward compared to the smooth rise and fall of Nat’s muscular shoulders. “Thank you.” The words feel lame, and utterly insufficient.

He takes a step closer. I inhale his scent of pie crust and cologne. God, he’s heavenly.

“Ginger,” he says, and when my name leaves his lips, it’s practically a command. I look up into his eyes, and now I know that I’m not imagining the steely, hard expression I see there. “It was my pleasure. Trust me.”

“I do.” The whispered words are out of my mouth before my brain has even processed them. “I do trust you. More than I ever would’ve thought I could trust someone I’ve just met.

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