Page 13 of Naughty Santa

“Is that a meat sauce?” she asked. “I’m a vegetarian.”

Of course she was. They probably required that before they let you into California. He glanced at the jar. “It’s just tomato and basil.”

“Okay, good. Not to be needy or anything. But I can’t do beef. I don’t think I could even put meat in my mouth, let alone swallow.”

He waited, amused, eyeing her.

She got it a heartbeat later. She shook her head and gave him a grin. “Shit. You know that’s not what I meant.”

“So you do swallow?”

Her look was sly, flirtatious. “In certain circumstances.”

Joe groaned quietly. “Tell me, Paris. You got a boyfriend in Los Angeles?”

What the fuck was that, you lunatic?

Unfortunately, his idiot side won the argument, quickly convincing him that it was a fine question.

This was called making conversation. Getting to know someone.

Paris smiled. “Nope. No boyfriend. Not for the last eighteen months. What about you? You look like the kind of guy who always has a girlfriend.”

It was true. Joe was that guy, or he used to be anyway. “I’m single. I’ve run out of options in North Pole. If you don’t lock and load a woman by your early twenties, you get left flying solo.”

“So why didn’t you lock and load some lucky girl? You’re not ugly,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows appreciatively.

That made Joe laugh. “Thanks. Let’s just say I chose poorly. I went on that silly love emotion when I should have been practical about who I asked out.”

Paris shook her head. “Relationships shouldn’t be practical at all. I tried to be practical, dating a man who looked good on paper, and trust me, it was all wrong.”

“What happened?”

“He proposed to me, and I threw up into my duck confit. The idea of marrying him made me physically ill.”

Holy shit.

“Are you serious?” Joe asked.

“You don’t joke about puking in public. So yes, I’m serious.” Paris stood up and opened the fridge. “Does Lydia have any wine?”

Joe dumped the sauce into a pan. “I take it your boyfriend didn’t appreciate your response.”

“Nope. He ended it, and I don’t blame him. My biggest feeling was relief. I’ll never do that again—date someone just because they’re a good guy and everything is smooth and easy.”

“What is it you want?” Joe asked, sorry he had.

She stood up and spun, triumphantly holding up a bottle. “I found wine! I mean, it’s a screw-top, but beggars can’t be choosers.” She opened it, then started rummaging for glasses. As she looked, she answered his question. “Passion. That’s what I want. I want passion and love and big, dramatic romance.”

Jesus.

What Paris described was right in Joe’s wheelhouse.

Then he had to remind himself again that Paris wasn’t the type to rusticate in Indiana. So he forced himself to tear off the Band-Aid. “You’re not keeping the store, are you?” he asked without preamble.

Her face fell. Then she shook her head. “No. I can’t. I have a business in L.A. I don’t belong here. This isn’t my life.”

Joe nodded. “I get that.” He did. And it meant she was off-limits. For anything serious anyway. “Does my mom know?”

---