Missing Christmas - Kate Clayborn Page 0,1

it for years, and she’s warm and soft and perfect and she says, “I did it” and I can feel her breath against my skin and I say roughly, “You did,” even as I’m tipping my hips back slightly so she doesn’t feel what she does to me.

You are an absolute bastard, Sorenson, I’m telling myself, trying to ignore the way the edge of her ponytail is resting against the back of my hand, cool and smooth and perfect.

And then she pulls back but she stays holding on and she’s just looking at me, right into my eyes, and her face is flushed in the exact way it gets every time we have a win together—the day we finally told our former boss we were going out on our own, the day we signed the lease on this space, the day we landed our first recruit under our new firm’s name, the day we’d finally made enough money to hire an admin to run the office.

Her breath hitches and she says, “Jasper,” and I have to close my eyes at the way it sounds. Breathy and surprised and wanting.

“Kris, I . . .”

My voice trails off when she moves a hand to my cheek, my evening stubble rough against her smooth palm. I open my eyes and she’s watching that hand; she watches, almost dazedly, her own thumb as it moves to stroke over my cheekbone, and—holy hell. Unless I can move my lower half into the next state she’s going to know about the situation down there, and I try to focus on other things while she works out, works off whatever this uncharacteristic form of affection is. There’s a tinkling echo of holiday music coming from outside the conference room, something Carol must’ve left piping out of her computer speakers when she took off a couple hours ago. That alone ought to be enough to dull this buzz, since I hate this holiday. I hate that every year it takes me away from the things I’m best at and the people I care about the most.

I hate that it takes me away from this office.

From her.

“Jasper,” she says again, and she moves that thumb enough to press it, lightly, on the curve of my bottom lip. I feel like I live a lifetime in that second of pressure, like I see every fantasy I’m not allowed to have about her. Starlight, soft clothes, silence. “Kiss me.”

It’s a demand she’s given me, but I can hear something living beneath it, a little question in the words that makes my shoulders tighten. There can’t be a question there; there can’t. I’ve followed the rules for this, for us working together and being friends, starting this business together and making it a success. I can’t ever have Kristen regretting me. I’d never recover from it.

“Kris,” I say warningly, even though I don’t let her go. I take a breath, gathering the will I need to stop this. It feels beyond my considerable, long-honed resources of restraint. Carol’s computer speakers are tinnily piping out a version of “Let It Snow!” and I really, really hate that song.

“Do it,” she says, and she knows why that would work. She knows I love a challenge.

But what she doesn’t know is that I’ve always loved a chance to break the rules, and I’m so, so tired of following this one. The most important rule I’ve ever made for myself.

I’ve missed her for so long.

So I do it.

I press my mouth to hers.

Chapter Two

KRISTEN

December 15

It had felt like Christmas morning, kissing Jasper.

Like the thing you’ve been waiting and waiting for, lying in bed at night with wishes stacked up in your head. Like waking up extra early when it finally comes, the house dark and quiet and your ears straining to hear for someone else to stir, to give you permission to burst from your room and start the day’s celebration. Like holding in your hand a perfectly wrapped present, your hands fairly trembling with excitement. Is this the one? you’re thinking, holding it there. Is this the one I really, really wanted?

Like opening that present and finding—with a burst of irrepressible joy—that it absolutely is.

At my desk I let my eyes slide closed, blinking out the light from my computer screen, where I’ve been staring at the Nhung contract since I got here an hour ago. Going over it again like this—it’s the kind of thing I might’ve done last night, once I’d heard the