Page 28 of The Mistletoe Makeover

I hurry to the bathroom and find an ancient one under the counter. “This might work.”

“While you’re in the shower, leave the door unlocked, and I’ll get the sweater and start blow-drying it.”

I glance at him like he’s crazy. “Um, no. I’ve watchedPsychotoo many times.”

While some women might not have second thoughts about leaving the door open for Jace Knight while they shower, that will not work for me.

“I was trying to help you, not murder you,” he says with a puzzled smile.

His dimple flashes, and I wish I’d stop noticing, because every time I do, it’s like my insides turn to jelly.

“Why don’t you throw the sweater out the door, and I’ll see if Edith has a clothes dryer,” Jace offers.

It’s a less-than-ideal plan, but it’s the fastest option at this point.

As I crank the water to extra-hot, it turns gloriously steamy, fogging the bathroom mirror. Hiding behind the door, I chuck my clothes into the room, and then step into the shower, hot enough to scald my skin and erase every thought about my precarious situation.

When I finally dry off, I peek out the door, checking for Jace.

The bedroom is empty, which I hope is a good sign that he found a dryer. A neatly folded henley shirt waits on the bed with a message scribbled on the motel’s notepad.

Feel free to take my shirt until your sweater is dry.

Since Jace wore a henley under his flannel shirt, he technically has two.

I grab Jace’s shirt and slide it on. Almost instantly, his smell washes over me. Pine and musk, an intoxicating mix that smells better than a Cinnabon. Which is saying a lot, since a fresh-from-the-oven Cinnabon is the best smell in the world.

I wipe the mirror so I can see how ridiculous it looks on me.

It’s oversized, the sleeves nearly covering my hands, while the hem of the shirt hits just above my knees. Every time I move, the soft cotton brushes delicately against my skin. It isn’t terrible. In fact, some people might even like it.My stomach flip-flops, and I quickly erase that thought.

Not Jace. He’s used to dating celebrities and movie stars.

Maybe if I hike up the sleeves and tuck the shirt into my jeans, it will look decent. But when I check the bathroom, I can’t find my jeans either. I’m searching the room when Jace returns, and I freeze, because I don’t know what else to do. Even though his shirt is as long as a dress, my stomach drops when his eyes graze over it. He probably thinks I look stupid.

“Um, thanks for the shirt.” My voice cracks.

He quickly looks away, realizing I caught him staring, but I can’t read his expression. He’s probably biting back a comment about how I look like an elf wearing a giant’s shroud. An awkward pause hangs between us before he drops his eyes to the garments in his hands.

“I’m glad you found it,” he says.

“I’m surprised you aren’t making fun of me,” I blurt, unable to hold it in any longer. If he’s going to make a joke about my appearance, he might as well start now.

He frowns. “Make fun of what?”

“Oh, just... how I look ridiculous in your shirt,” I say, pulling at the hem, trying to shield myself from his little jabs.

He stops, his eyes locked on mine, and then mutters, “I wouldnevermake fun of how you look.”

My breath hitches for a second, like someone’s squeezed the air out of me. I glance away, sure I misinterpreted his meaning. “Okay, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“When have I made fun of how you look?” he asks in a voice that sounds almost offended.

I give a weak shrug, sorting through our endless petty arguments in the short time we’ve known each other. “Well, you made fun of my boots.”

“That wasn’t because...” He runs a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I mean, they’re impractical. Not because of how they look on you.”

I frown, finally seeing the truth in his eyes. He didn’t hate me in my boots.

---