“What are you doing?” she asked as he rolled up his shirt sleeves.
“It appears I’m going to spend Christmas making sliders. With you, Olivia.” His eyes followed the trail of the V-neck of her dress, scorching her body almost as much as his fingers did.
Her breasts were larger than they’d been. The meds she’d been prescribed had taken the edge off her depression but had fueled her eating and killed her desire for exercise, a painful combination. She’d been trying hard to grapple with both but had limited success. The scale had just kept ticking upward.
But watching Anders’s gaze burned the edges off her worries.
“It’s your Christmas?”
Anders nodded. “Yes, we celebrate on Christmas Eve. In Sweden.”
“Then you should be out there celebrating.”
“I’d rather be in here.”
Olivia looked at the pile of half-prepared food. Damn it, if he wanted to help, he could. “Merry Christmas, Anders.” She reached for a spare apron and playfully threw it at him, trying not to notice the size of his hands as he caught it and put it on.
“God Jul, Olivia,” he said, his voice husky, as he reached for a platter.
She moved to the other side of the stainless steel counter to give herself a little more breathing room, because, sure, making sliders with the hottest man she’d ever come across was going to be a breeze.
Two hours later, Anders figured he’d make himself useful and wipe down the bar. The distillery was quiet, all the guests were gone, and he could finally breathe. Occasionally he’d look up to see Olivia dance her way around the room, turning off all the twinkling lights. There was a fluidity to her motion. At some point, she’d picked a rose from an abandoned table arrangement and perched it behind her ear.
It helped that she was too cute for words with that delicate chin, pert nose, and hooded eyes beneath strong brows. But her mouth, fuck, there was nothing cute about that. Plump lips that rested in the sexiest fucking pout he’d ever seen.
He’d found himself watching her lips as she told him how to stack the sliders on the trays or asked him to retrieve something from the large walk-in refrigerator. The idea of them wrapped around his cock while he gripped her lush brown hair made him glad they were no longer under the fluorescent lights of the kitchen, where she’d be able to see his dick tenting his pants.
“Everyone is gone,” Anders said, as she walked toward him. “You can relax.”
Olivia pressed her head to the bar and let out a sigh. “I needed to get it all cleared away because the cleaning crew aren’t in until the day after Christmas. Thank you so much for helping me out. It would have been a disaster otherwise.”
“Det var så lite . . .sorry, it was nothing.” Anders stepped out from behind the bar and pulled out the stools next to where she stood. “Sorry. I slip back into Swedish when I’m tired. Sit with me for a minute.”
She raised her head, and he could see that his initial impression of her had been wrong. She wasn’t just pretty, she was beautiful. Soft hazel eyes. Cheekbones that any number of supermodels would die for.
And then she smiled, and it almost knocked him on his ass.
“I’m exhausted, but too wired to sleep. It’s been a long year, Anders. The hardest one I’ve ever had,” she said, and the weight of her words hit him as true.
“Want to talk about it?”
Olivia shook her head. “Not tonight. Want a nightcap? One for the road? As a thank you.”
He’d planned to stick to one drink, but if it meant he got to spend a little more time with Olivia, he’d break his rule. “Sure. What do you suggest?”
Stepping behind the bar, she reached for a bottle of what looked like gin. “This is our best gin,” she said. “My brother makes it right here. Dyer’s Medallion.” She handed him the bottle, then filled two glasses with ice and long stems of thyme.
“So, this is his distillery?”
“It’s ours, an equal split between my brother, sister, and me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, handing the bottle back to her so she could pour it. “I just assumed you worked here. As an employee, I mean.”
“I guess I do. I just happen to own it, as well.”
He watched her competently pour a generous measure into each glass, followed by a splash of tonic water. “Cheers,” she said, passing him a glass and raising her own.
“Skål,” he said. He took a sip. “This is really good.”
Olivia laughed. “Hearing that never gets old. My brother is a genius at finding and distilling botanicals. That’s why it tastes like that. Do you live here, or did you just fly in for Karl’s wedding?”
“Just for the wedding. I live in Phoenix.”
She took a sip of her drink and then ran her tongue slowly over her lower lip. “And what do you do in Phoenix?”
He studied those innocent eyes of hers, lined with thick lashes. Unless she was a great actress, he could tell she didn’t know.
“I’m a hockey player too.”
“Forgive me, I don’t really watch sports, but what position do you play?”
Olivia had no idea who he was, how much he was worth, how he played for Sweden’s national team. To her, he was just another guy, and it was refreshing. “I’m a center, a forward position, and primarily play the middle of the ice. I’m also the alternate captain for the team.”
“Do you get hurt? Hockey’s a very . . .strenuous game.”
He ran his hand gingerly along the bruise on his left hip and grimaced. “It happens. Sure, it can get rough, but no one laces their skates with the idea of permanently injuring someone else.”
Olivia’s face suddenly looked concerned. “Oh my gosh. Are you hurt now? And you were standing all that time in the kitchen? Why didn’t you say something? Do you need ice? I should get you a cab so you can go and rest it or something. I—”
“Olivia.” Anders placed his hand over hers. “My hip is fine. A bit bruised, but fine. And I happen to want to be here, with you. Right now. If that doesn’t bother you.”
The corners of her mouth turned up in a shy smile. “It doesn’t bother me. I like it that you’re here too.”
She took a sip of her drink, and he had to stop watching those lips of hers.
“When do you fly back?”
Anders glanced at his watch. It was already after midnight. Christmas Day. “Early on the twenty-sixth.”
“That sucks. Who wants an early flight the day after Christmas?”
He nodded. “True. But better than tomorrow.”
Olivia broke their gaze but grinned as she bit her lip and busied herself cleaning down the counter. “Flying must be a challenge for you. How tall are you exactly?”
“I’m lucky I get to travel in first class or by charter jet but it’s still a bit of a squeeze, and I’m six feet, two inches. Two hundred and twelve pounds. Twenty-three years old.”
Lines appeared between Olivia’s brow, and he reached out without thinking to smooth them with his thumb. “You don’t like those stats?” he said self-deprecatingly.
Olivia reached up and pulled the elastic out of her hair, shaking it all loose so the waves fell over her shoulders. It made her look younger. “Yours are fine,” she said, running her fingers through it. “I don’t like my own.” She took a large gulp of the gin.