Page 5 of Mistle-Ho

Smoothing down my hair, I take a deep breath and smile, feeling better now that the unwanted detour my filthy little mind tried to take has been diverted back to the straight and narrow.

And my straight and narrow is irritated.

“Fucking prick.”

I snatch up the scarf, getting angrier as I look down at the item. It’s flipping gorgeous and feels like butter under my fingers. I also looks remarkably similar to the one looped around my neck. I don’t know why he would remember something like that, or what in the hell would possess him to get this for me, but I don’t want it.

Even though I kinda want it.

I carry it along with me as I march down the steps leading off the deck and across the yard. Pausing at the bottom of the ladder leading to the stilted wood structure my dad built over twenty years ago, I decide not to attempt it in my shoes. After taking a second to work them off, I clutch the heels in one hand, the scarf box in the other, and start to climb, using my wrists and elbows to grip. Reaching the top, I shimmy my way onto the platform before getting to my bare feet and slinging open the door.

In the years since I moved out on my own, the treehouse has changed pretty significantly. My mom has turned it from a simple sort of structure with bare wood floors and open-air windows to a fully decked out she-shed, complete with a pillow-stacked daybed, a plush area rug, and a glittering chandelier. It also sports double-hung windows, a salvaged antique door, and an air-conditioning unit.

The place is way nicer than when I was a kid, but I’m not complaining. I’ve taken advantage of its rustic luxury every Christmas for the past few years, spending the night of theannual party piled on the bed in comfort, scrolling on my phone while I run down the clock.

And that’s what I’m going to do again tonight. Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, Gavin won’t be putting his money where his mouth is.

Dropping my shoes to the carpet, I take a guilty second to run the tips of my fingers over the luxurious scarf he gave me, scowling at how silky soft it is. Maybe I can wear it a couple times before I send it off in a garbage bag of clothes destined for the local women’s shelter.

“Ugh.” Disgusted with myself and my weakness for nice things, I sling the box onto one of the small tables flanking the daybed.

“You’re early.”

My stomach drops and I nearly choke on my spit as I gasp in shock at Gavin’s voice behind me. Spinning, I find his hulking form taking up the entirety of the doorway. “What are you doing here?”

Gavin ducks his head so he can clear the low frame, but straightens to his full height once he’s inside, the sheer bulk of him making my mouth dry. A man his size could throw a woman around without breaking a freaking sweat—an assumption that has me feeling hot all over again.

He grips the edge of the door and swings it closed, the move just as silent as his ascent into the treehouse had been. “You asked me to prove something and I’m here to do it.” His face is shadowed, making it impossible to read his expression. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

Is he trying to turn this around on me? Makemetake the blame forhisbullshit? Like fucking hell he will.

I stand taller, even though it still only brings me up to his mid chest now that I’m without my shoes. “I haven’t changed mymind.” Lifting my chin, I square my shoulders, still certain he’s going to back down and admit this is all exactly what I think it is.

Gavin acting like I’m still a little girl he can tease and taunt.

He shifts on his feet, hands restless at his sides, fisting tight a second before his long fingers stretch and twitch. When his shoulders drop, I nearly smile in victory, but the expression is stalled by a twinge of disappointment I’m going to ignore and deny until my dying breath.

Then he steps toward me and my heart stutters to a stop. I’m frozen in place, bare feet fused to the rug as he closes in, crowding me in a way that makes me want to run almost as much as it makes me want to stay put.

Just to see what happens.

When he reaches for me, my lungs join my heart, abandoning their task as every cell in my body zeroes in on the tip of his pointer as it meets the front of my throat, sliding like a whisper down my skin, tracing the dip between my collarbones. His voice is just as gentle when he says, “You’re so soft, Al.”

I must have chugged more punch than I thought, because I think I’m going to pass out. “I moisturize.” My brain barely registers how dumb of a response that was because Gavin’s wandering finger is now sliding under the neckline of my dress to skim over the swell of one boob. As if I’m possessed by some lust-driven entity, I arch my back, encouraging him to touch more of me.

My sex life has been incredibly lackluster thanks to my shining personality and engaging temperament. I’m not the girl men approach at bars, and my chances of catching their romantic attention drop even lower when they meet me without the influence of alcohol.

I can’t fake interest. Even when I can make myself say all the right words, my face gives me away. I don’t like small talk and I can’t flirt, so my body count is in the single digits.

More accurately, one single digit.

“Can I touch you?” Gavin’s deep voice is a little hesitant, which is weird because, based on what I’ve heard, the man has enough experience for both of us.

And probably a few of his friends.

“You are touching me.” My own voice is breathy and filled with need, which is also weird because… No. It’s not weird. Iamfilled with need and struggling to breathe.

Gavin moves in a little more, that taunting touch still steering clear of anything worthwhile. “I meanreallytouch you.”

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