Booked for Christmas

thinking about cocoa stains anymore. Suddenly, Sophie’s brain was alight with knowledge of just how firm Wolfe’s pecs were, how well-defined and flat his abdomen was under her fingers, with just the thin layers of sweater and dish cloth separating them. Her fingers stuttered and stilled, her skin warm with desire. Sophie looked up to see that Wolfe’s face was very close to hers, near enough that she could tip forward just a few inches and press her mouth to his.
His eyes were a warm, melting caramel, golden in the glow of lights in the cabin. Sophie’s writer brain insisted that they were smoldering. Her hand fell from his chest to his strong, solid thigh. Wolfe brought a fingertip to her cheek, caressing her with it from cheekbone to chin, his touch just a whisper along her skin. And still, her skin came alive with longing.
Sophie’s eyes wanted to drift close. Her body wanted to lean into his, to let him take the weight of her. She wanted to climb into his lap, wanted to feel him pressing into her, wanted to feel his arousal.
By the look in Wolfe’s dark, hooded eyes, he wanted the same things. His hands had slipped, one to cup her neck, the other just under her breast, pressing into her rib cage. He was breathing quickly, his pupils dilated. His body definitely, definitely wanted her.
But there was something about his expression that gave her pause: Just a shadow across his face that said he’d been hurt before. There was a hint of vulnerability in the way he was looking at her, both desiring and hesitant, wanting to push forward and hold back.
Old insecurities came to roost in Sophie’s mind like a flock of ravens. What if the hesitation was because he was, in fact, still hung up on Hannah? Hadn’t she learned her lesson with her previous relationships? A voice in the back of her mind told her she wasn’t meant for romance. For whatever reason, the universe had deemed her unfit for a great love so far. The best predictor of future events were past events, and if that was true, she needed to run—not walk—away.
Her breathing unsteady and quick, Sophie pulled back. “I’m going to bed.”
Wolfe’s eyes drifted to her mouth. “Okay.” His voice was deeper than usual, husky with want.
Sophie stood, shaking her head, realizing he’d taken that as an invitation. Just the idea of him in her bed set her entire body trembling. She balled the dish towel in her hand just to have something to hang on to. “N-no. No, I mean, I’m going to bed. Alone. Goodnight.”
Wolfe’s brought his hands to his lap, looking confused. He studied her, blinking his thick, dark, glossy eyelashes, a small furrow between his brows. “What—Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she squeaked, her voice too high as she set the dish towel down. Already she was backing away in as dignified a manner as she could with one painful ankle. “Just, you know. Tired.” She did an elaborate stretch and yawn. From the look on Wolfe’s face, she wouldn’t be winning an Oscar anytime soon.
But it was fine. In this moment, she just needed to get away, to run (well, speed-hobble) to her bedroom, and shut the door. He let her go without a word, but the silence in the room spoke pages.

11
Sophie sat on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands. Shit. Shit. That was probably the most awkward, horrible exit she’d ever made—including that time in college when she played Juliet’s nursemaid and tripped over her own feet on stage in the middle of an especially moving scene. She’d gone down in a big heap of old-fashioned skirts that billowed up and covered her head, exposing her legs and underwear to the delighted audience. Someone later told her there’d been a spotlight on her vag, as if to helpfully highlight what everyone should be looking at.
This was so, so much worse.
Sophie caught sight of herself in the mirror she’d nailed to her closet door. Her eyes were wide, her breathing harsh and labored, as if she’d had an encounter with a stampeding moose instead of a handsome, muscular, willing man straight out of one of her novels. “What is wrong with me?”
The truth was, Wolfe scared her. Actually, he terrified her because he wasn’t what she’d expected—instead of an insufferable, elitist, condescending ass, she’d gotten to know someone hardworking and kind and willing to admit when he’d made a mistake. Someone she actually … liked. And that was more alarming than a hungry grizzly.
When it came to romance, Sophie had a horrible track record; Wolfe wasn’t the only one who’d seen his love life go horribly wrong. Like she’d told Wolfe, she’d struck out three times in a row. What did that say about her?
Besides, Sophie could think of so many reasons she and Wolfe were a terrible idea:
1. He was as cynical as she was hopeful
2. He was vulnerable and possibly nursing some deeply buried feelings for Mortician Hannah
3. It was very likely he was just bored from being stuck in a cabin all day out in the middle of nowhere rather than actually, truly interested in her
4. Sophie had never been a “just sex” kinda girl. Already, just thinking about sleeping with Wolfe, she was wondering if he’d be ready to date. Already, she was imagining his fingers entwined around hers as they walked in the snow. She was wondering if her Lovers tarot card had been about him—and his about her
“For God’s sake, Soph,” she snapped, staring resolutely at her reflection in the mirror. “A man you find ridiculously attractive and captivating wants to take you to bed. You can’t just shrivel up and become a chump who’s too afraid to put herself out there. You want love? Well, this is how you find it. Maybe not with Wolfe—maybe you’re too different, and that’s fine. But this is your first step. This is the start of you