Mr. Hot Grinch - Lindsey Hart Page 0,34

other.

Dear god, it’s not a small bulge.

“This is the worst Christmas ever!” I hiss. I try to spin on my heels and walk out of the kitchen, but Luke catches my hand. He wraps his long fingers around mine, and they are strong, masculine, and probably very talented.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because! We…we can’t do this. You can’t kiss me, and I can’t kiss you. It’s against the rules.”

“What rules?”

Why now, of all times, do his eyes have to sparkle with amusement? He should be freaking out. He should be pissed. He shouldn’t be looking freaking happier than he has any other time I’ve seen him. I almost wish he’d go back to being sad, tragic, and missing his wife. God. We were talking about his wife, who passed away, who he misses, and also about how this time of year sucks, how every time of the year sucks, how it all sucks. Then he kissed me. Or maybe I kissed him. Anyway, a kiss happened. How is it not wrong just because of when it happened?

That kiss was trying to erase something. We were trying to use sex so that we didn’t have to deal with actual emotion, maybe? Why is adulting so hard? But even so…even if there aren’t rules about when to start getting involved with someone who probably isn’t over the person they lost and is very deeply affected by it, then there are rules about not banging your boss. He’s kind of my boss. At the very least, I care about Shade, so there should be rules about not banging Shade’s dad.

Ugh, it sounds so dirty.

Why are my lady bits throbbing even harder now? Why do my nipples feel like they’re going to cut through my bra and shirt right now? Dirty should not be hot. But oh, who am I kidding? Dirty is always kind of hot, but not this kind of dirty. I can’t let it be hot.

“You’re…you’re entirely everything we can’t do. I mean, I can’t do. God. Chicken nuggets. I mean…that…there are…it would be too complicated. It would mess things up.”

“It wouldn’t have to. Maybe it could be nice. It could be good for Shade. I can tell he likes you. And you like him too. So, what’s wrong with sticking around? You get paid, and Shade gets to have a mother type figure in his life who he can trust and who looks out for him and cares for him. Then I get…well…”

“Sex?” I hiss. Wow. I am so epically stupid. “You get what? A nanny with benefits? Do you even know how gross it is because you are paying me to be a nanny?”

“That’s not paying you for the other stuff.”

“So, it’s just a bonus? My body is just a bonus to you?”

“No! That’s not…that’s not what I’m saying. I’m not even talking about sex. I just…would it be so bad to just let yourself be close when it feels right?”

“Yes! Because if Shade found out…”

“He would find out because I would talk to him and explain how adults sometimes have relationships with each other. They can learn to care about each other, and it doesn’t mean we wouldn’t care about him.”

“What the fuck!” I stamp my foot but tone it down because I remember that Shade’s sleeping and waking him up is the last thing I want. “Can you even hear yourself?” I whisper scream.

Never underestimate the power of a good whisper scream. To Luke’s credit, he keeps a straight face. He has the most annoyingly perfect—no. Shit. Just the most annoyingly perfect poker face. That’s what I was trying to say. He has this blank expression that drives me nuts. Not only can I not read him, but I also can’t tell if he’s serious or playing some twisted joke on me. This is the last thing I expected. How can someone who doesn’t even like me be all mopey and enjoy torturing me, baiting me, and waiting for me to fail, before just basically straight up asking me if I’d like to be his fuck buddy?

“I do hear myself. I think the arrangement would make sense.”

“An arrangement? Are you for real? Ugh. That’s so gross. Please don’t use that word.”

“The relationship would make sense.”

“Don’t use that word either.”

“Okay. Having you in my bed to combat the emptiness that keeps growing inside us when we are both lonely, and also for companionship and mutually shared pleasure would make sense.”

“I’m not empty inside!” I point an accusatory finger