Page 7 of Mistletoe and Mischief

Trent

I groan and roll over, my head pounding. Last night’s sleep, or rather, insomnia, was miserable. I yank out my noise-cancelling earbuds, grateful that the house is quiet.

Reluctantly, I reach for my phone and power it on. A barrage of notifications flood the screen. I scroll through the texts, my stomach churning.

Last night, I’d waited until they got home before sending one final text:Not participating. Have fun.

Then I turned my phone off.

They didn’t let up. Texts spell out that they think they’re in love. Pictures tease me with a glimpse of cleavage, pouty lips, and a perfect ass getting a spanking.

I unlock my door, listening for any signs of life. They’re nowhere in sight, thank God.

I venture out, padding down the hallway towards the kitchen. All I need are a couple of minutes to brew a stiff coffee, then I’ll lock myself in my bedroom again.

The living room looks worse than my bedroom before I cleaned last night—discarded clothes, couch cushions askew. I step over a bra, averting my eyes. Don’t think about it. Don’t imagine.

In the kitchen, I fumble with the coffee maker, wishing there was some way to grind the beans without making noise.

Hell, even the kitchen is a mess. The salt and pepper shakers are knocked off the counter and the dishtowel is on the ground.

As the rich aroma fills the air, I lean against the counter, closing my eyes.

As of this morning, I’ve successfully made it two years since Jasmine shot down my marriage proposal. I still don’t understand how I missed the cues that she didn’t want to commit.

We were perfect together. Until she ruined me.

The coffee maker beeps. I grab my cup and stride toward the solace of my bedroom.

Pausing next to the sexy Santa dress dangling from an armchair, I wonder how long before they take her home. How awkward will it be if she stays—and I’m the fifth wheel. Will they insist I have sex with her?

Should I?

If I’m not ready to move on now, will I ever be? Is this one of those ‘rip the Band-aid off’ moments? I sip the coffee then touch the red and white dress.

If I leave my bedroom door open, I could decide once I see her. That’s a plan.

But my heart’s not in it. I don’t want to have sex, just to get it out of the way. I want it to mean something.

I savor the warmth of the coffee as I step toward my bedroom. The caffeine helps with a layer of fatigue. I rub my hand over my face.

I stop dead in my tracks. The scent of jasmine. Staring at my hand, I attempt to calm myself. Jasmine is a popular scent. My ex isn’t the only one who wears it. I’m not an idiot. I know this.

It’s the undertones of the scent. The sweetness that was her—not her perfume.

Insomnia has clearly left me delusional. I gulp down another steaming mouthful of coffee.

I also rush to my room, grab my phone, and scroll through the piecemeal photos. None of them reveal enough to let me see if it’s her. Even the skin tone is hard to tell because the lights are dimmed in all the photos.

“Trent?” A soft, familiar voice calls from the hallway. Am I hallucinating her voice too?

My world stops. My phone falls from my fingers. The coffee mug races it to the ground. Hot liquid and broken shards scatter around me. They might as well be the aftermath of my heart.

If I don’t look up, can I pretend the woman who rejected me isn’t standing in my doorway?

Six

Jasmine

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