Page 49 of Santa's Mistletoe Playbook

“Shit. Lemme help.” Dylan swallowed what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

I peered at him through a kaleidoscope of mangled ice flakes. “Don’t you dare laugh at me.”

“Not gonna say a word,” he promised, crossing his heart and making the sloppiest scout salute I’d ever seen.

“You were never a scout, were you?” I sighed, brushing my jacket. More ice trickled down my back. “EEEEeee!” I screeched, standing still as Dylan’s hand dived down the back of my jacket. “What are you doing?”

“Catching this chunker.” Dylan’s fingers hit my spine at the same time as the ice, about halfway down my back, contacting bare skin. He fished out the offending iceball that was no conglomerate of cute snowflakes from inside my clothing and tossed it at our feet. “That thing coulda knocked you out.” He grinned down at me, swiping a melting drop of snow from my face. “You okay?”

I wanted to swoon, damn it.

Time and a place, Westwood.

“I promise a snowball won’t break me, defender boy.”

“I thought I was big boy,” he pouted.

A laugh bubbled out of me. “You are ridiculous.” I took a sip of my latte and hummed my appreciation.

“But sexy.”

I choked on the deliciousness and his ability to flirt without mercy. “Ridiculous.”

“And…” he waggled his eyebrows.

“A joker. Player.” Plenty of other words came to mind. “Do you takeanythingseriously?” I leaned back, poking his stomach. Rock hard abs beneath his jacket and shirt nearly broke my finger. “Apart from beefing up.”

“I take my heart very seriously. And making my girl come.”

What started as a mocking tone twisted into something much more sensual in a matter of seconds. Even he looked surprised at the shift, but it didn't prevent the heat from wreathing his eyes in a darkness I could almost taste.

I blinked at him as a group of female students I didn’t recognize who were hanging off to one side of us took a suddeninterest in the big man with his arm still wrapped around me.Again.

And I hadn’t protested enough.

I wound my way out of his grasp and he let me. I clenched my teeth, irritation winding its way along my spine right to the place that flushed both hot and cold in the middle of my back at the memory of his touch there.

“Well, Dylan the Defender. It was good to meet you in person. I’m sure you’ll make a cute side article or bottom of the fourth page article, or something…” I deliberately let the insult trail off and meet a cold, snowy death.

His gaze froze me. “So, not worthy of a kiss under the mistletoe or the front page, huh?”

I smirked, though my stomach swooped. “Nope.” I popped the ‘p’ softly for the hell of it, knowing I was poking the not so proverbial bear–the man had enough hair on his head that I suspected he was covered in the stuff.

“Mmm.” His chest rumbled so deeply I could almost feel it. “What a pity. It was nice to meet you, reporter girl.”

My heart clenched.That’s it?I honestly expected to have to fight more to earn my freedom from his clutching arms.Maybe he doesn’t like pushy girls who fight back. But I could have sworn I saw interest in his eyes, and he hadn’t been keen to let me go, though he did ignore the fangirls in lieu of farewelling me.

Or maybe I was desperately reading way too much into his manwhore attitude. At this rate, I'd end up just another notch on his bedpost.

So why does this hurt?

It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t matter a whit. But for some dumbass reason, it did.

Stupid, stupid.

“Sure.” I clenched my coffee and waggled the recyclable cup a little. “Thanks for the replacement. And for sweeping me off my feet.” My tight grin grew at the thought of the article I really would write about him…and the headline.

“Cool. So, I’ll wiggle my butt at you for the next home game.” His face lost all its humor, like this stung for him as much as it did me.

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