Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 70368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“Damn. Damn. Damn.” Never, ever had I come so hard, so quickly, or from doing so little. If my few prior attempts at sex had been a disappointing appetizer, this was a goddamned Vegas buffet with a five-star chef at the helm, and I wanted to gorge on the sheer pleasure for hours. Rather than stifle my breathing as I ordinarily would, I let myself moan and shudder and float slowly, gently back down.
“Oh wow.” Zeb peered down at me, gaze amused and amazed both. “Did I win or did I lose?”
“Everyone won.” I groaned and tugged him back down. He rolled away to remove his shirt, cleaning up the mess on his belly before flipping off the light. I made a sound of protest, and he returned to my side, head on my shoulder, little sleepy breaths huffing against my neck.
“Congrats to us.” Zeb gave a short, tired laugh.
Long after he drifted off, I lay there. I’d lied. We hadn’t won a damn thing. In fact, I’d lost because I wanted to do that again and again and again until spring emerged, and then I wanted to do it in the sunshine. Every damn season. I wanted it all, but I couldn’t let myself have any of it.
Ten
ZEB
28 SHOPPING DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS
The knitters were at it again. All weekend, Gabe’s bright idea to place all the yarn-based crafters in a row for the handmade gift bazaar had been tempting fate. Someone was going to get stabbed with a giant pointed needle before this Sunday night was over. Quite possibly by me. I glanced over at the bar area where Atlas was serving up drinks for the crafters’ dinner.
He’d been avoiding me for almost forty-eight hours. Forty-eight long hours. All Saturday, he’d kept busy wrapping purchases and running errands for Gabe. I’d had a prescheduled livestream gaming event in the evening. Atlas had gone to Gabe’s for dinner and stayed over on the pretext of letting me work, but I knew the truth. He’d liked the kissing and the jerking off far too much to let himself have a repeat and didn’t want to risk a real conversation with me.
Eventually, we’d have to talk, but I’d been run ragged by work at Seasons and trying to keep my gaming channel active and relevant. I’d spent most of Saturday and Sunday trying to untangle the verbal gnarls and knots the fiber artists kept hurling at each other.
And now it was Sunday evening, and tensions had reached a fraying point.
“Muriel Akin, you’re a lying thief of a knitter.” Three crafters stood near the line for drinks, and the one speaking had a pinched expression, short burgundy hair, sharply angled glasses, and a sharper tongue. “You stole that mini-sweater ornament idea from me.”
“Mopsy Tucker, I should have known you’d act like you were first to put a sweater on an ornament hanger.” Muriel had a riot of silver curls, matching silver glasses, and an ample chest festooned with a half-dozen bead necklaces in holiday colors. “You’re a self-righteous—”
“Ladies!” The third crafter held up a hand. Connie was a retired elementary school teacher with super short salt-and-pepper hair who’d done a brisk trade all weekend in crocheted potholders.
“Connie, you stay out of this.” Mopsy made a tsking noise. Her real name was Margaret, and she worked in the Kringle’s Crossing post office when she wasn’t busy running the local knitting guild. I’d had enough dealings with her over the years to know she was pickier than Gabe and never missed a chance to press a point. “You crocheters all share patterns loosey-goosey anyway. In addition to being first in the area to offer the sweater ornaments, I’m selling my pattern online.”
“Good for you, Mopsy.” Muriel gave an epic eye roll. “Some of us don’t need patterns.”
“I agree. I came up with my Disney tea cozies on my own,” Connie added brightly.
“You’re courting a cease-and-desist letter from an angry movie studio.” Mopsy clucked. “And as for—”
“Who needs a drink?” I pitched my voice to be as cheerful as possible, angling myself out of knitting needle range while steering the trio closer to the bar.
“Me!” Connie stepped up to the bar. “I’ll take that peppermint cocktail everyone is raving about.”
Mopsy snorted. “I don’t hold with hard liquor.”
“We know.” Muriel, who was also part of the knitting guild, had the tone of someone who’d put up with a frenemy for decades.
“We have tea and soda.” Luckily, I’d grown up in customer service and could keep my tone bland and soothing even with the rudest patrons.
“I make a mean mocktail.” Having finished with the earlier drink rush, Atlas turned his attention to the feuding crafters. He pointed at the hand-lettered drinks sign Paige had made. “Pick your nonalcoholic poison.”
“Well, I suppose I could try the cranberry spritzer.” Mopsy patted her hair, expression far less homicidal.