Page 64 of Home for Christmas in July

Just then, her watch beeps. She glances down at the time, then jumps to her feet. “It’s T minus eighteen hours until the open house, people! Does everyone have their assignments? Any questions?”

Loud laughter drowns out the rest of her instructions.

She turns to me with a confused expression. “What’s so funny?”

I give her a gentle smile. “I think it’s that you’re the living embodiment of the expression the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

CHAPTER 26

Nick

Friday

Iwake early with a stiff neck from sleeping on the too-short couch, a smile when I remember that Noelle’s just feet away in the bedroom, and a to-do list as long as Santa’s beard. I stretch lazily and decide I should bring Noelle coffee in bed to start her day. I scratch my belly and glance at the bedroom door. It’s ajar.

I launch myself off the couch and bolt toward the bedroom. That door was closed all night. There’s no way Bianchi got in here right under my nose. I burst into the room, ready for anything.

Anything, that is, except what I find. Noelle stands in front of the antique mirror in the corner, pirouetting in the Mrs. Santa sundress or whatever it is. I think she called it a cocktaildress. Aptly named, because the sight of her in it has my co—never mind.

She catches my eye in the mirror, and I cover the front of my boxers with both hands.

“Morning.”

“Uh, yeah, morning.”

“I’m just trying on the dress.”

“I see that.” I cough. “It looks like it was made for you.”

She beams. Then her eyes travel down my bare chest and further south. She bursts into laughter. I try not to take offense.

“Sorry,” she says after she catches her breath. “Your boxers are cute.”

I look down at the surfing Santas that festoon my underwear. “Oh, right. You might as well know, I always wear Christmas boxers.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Notalways, right?”

“I counted once. I have forty-seven pairs of Christmas themed boxer shorts. So, yep. Always.”

“You’re a very dedicated St. Nick,” she tells me as she walks toward me.

When she’s about six inches away, I swallow hard. “I’m warning you now, Noe. If you come any closer, we’re going to run behind Holly’s timetable all day because I’mthis closeto ripping that dress off you and taking you to bed.”

Her chest rises in the snug bodice and a pink stain colors her cheeks. Her lips part. “Oh.”

We stare at each other for a long, long moment. I can feel the heat rising off her body. My pulse rushes. Finally, I grit myteeth and say, “I’m gonna put some clothes on and get the coffee started.”

Her eyes are still locked on mine, heavy with desire, but she nods. “Good idea. We have a big day. I’ll get dressed and meet you in the kitchen.”

I turn and take my surfing Santa-covered butt out of the room before my willpower deserts me.

Ten minutes later, we’re fully dressed, drinking coffee at the butcher block kitchen island, and splitting one of the Jule-logs that Merry left in the fridge.

“Nothing like a healthy breakfast of caffeine and chocolate,” Noelle observes.

“It’s an occupational hazard, Mrs. Claus. For the next three days, you’ll be running on pure sugar.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, that’s unfortunate.”

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