Page 17 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

He looked back over his shoulder.

“What I want is to have rough casual sex with you, forget your name in the morning, then three days later surprise you at work with a pregnancy scare until I remember that we did anal and actually I just ate two-week-old Mexican leftovers and will be facing the consequences of my actions.”

He looked horrified. “We’re not doing any of that. None of that is appealing.”

“You’re not a virgin, are you?” I said accusingly, poking him in the middle of his rock-hard abs.

“No! I had a girlfriend. In fact, I’ve had lots. Well, some. A handful. One of them was serious-ish. We might have gotten married.” He was on the defensive.

“Let me guess. She lives in Canada, and I wouldn’t know her.”

“She’s real.”

“Yeah, not surprising she dumped you then.”

A scowl marred the handsome face. “Now I really don’t want to date you.”

I picked up a Sharpie from one of the information stands and uncapped it with my teeth. Then I grabbed his wrist and scrawled on the muscular forearm, which had no right to be that erotic, I mean, really.

He didn’t pull away as I wrote the name of a café and a time.

“I’m going to be at the Noelle Noshery at five thirty p.m. Show up or don’t.”

8

RYDER

“Who goes to an animal shelter event and doesn’t even come home with a puppy?” Rick complained.

“Why are you in my apartment, Utah?” I dropped my bag on the floor of my living room and began sorting the contents.

“Ooh, College Boy’s snappy today.” Rick leaned back against the couch cushions.

The apartment was gray and white with high-end finishes but no personality. I had enough saved up to buy a place and decorate, but that seemed like asking for trouble. I still kept a bag packed with food and clothes and all my prized possessions just in case something happened and I was forced to leave in a hurry in the middle of the night with no warning and no time to pack.

Fool me once…

I had learned my lesson the hard way in foster care.

I neatly stacked my things on the coffee table, sorting them by what needed to be cleaned, what needed airing out, and what would go back in the bag after I vacuumed it out.

“He’s so organized,” Mike said, eating a chicken breast and leaning on the island that separated the kitchen from the living area.

“Hey! That’s my lunch.”

“You said the chicken was making you sick. I’m just helping out our star player.”

“Did one of the puppies make a mess on your arm?” Pete asked, pointing.

The Sharpie on my arm was smeared but still legible. “It’s nothing.”

The guys jumped me.

“Lemme see.”

“Get off me.”

“Don’t hurt him. We need him to win next weekend against the Frosthawks.”

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