Page 41 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

“I should be prepping for the big game. Do some drills.”

“Not spend time with your girlfriend so she doesn’t distract you?” I teased, trailing my fingers up his arm.

“Coach did say take it easy.” He grinned at me. “But this still isn’t a date,” he added quickly. “I want to do something special for our third date.”

“So it’s date two and a half. Is that like ‘you suck on my tits and finger me while you hump my leg’ territory?”

“That’s not—I wouldn’t do that.”

“Suck on my tits? Didn’t you hear what Myrtle had to say?”

“I’m not humping your leg.” Jaw set, he drove down the road. Both hands on the wheel.

“But you will suck on my tits?”

The blue eyes darted to me then back to the road. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You have low standards if that’s all you can fantasize about.”

I ran my hand up his rock-hard thigh. “Someone’s cocky.”

He grabbed my hand. “I am a professional athlete,” he teased. “I have to know exactly what level my body is capable of performing at.”

My brain unhelpfully supplied me with an image of Ryder barreling down the ice—focused, powerful.

“Why is this not a third date, again?”

He lifted my hand to his mouth, kissed my knuckles. “Because you deserve something magical. You deserve the world.”

“The Christmas market is full of holiday magic,” I said as Ryder took one of the sole parking spaces left on a side street near the market. “That’s a third date if I ever saw one.”

“We were technically here for our first date.”

“The Noelle Noshery is on Main Street,” I reminded him as he looped an arm around my waist.

It felt like we’d known each other forever, just engaging in a familiar back-and-forth, arguing about facts as my sister liked to complain our parents would do. The important thing was that we were talking. It didn’t matter what we said.

“Ryder!” A middle-aged woman wearing reindeer antlers and an oversized red sweater festooned with bells shoved a steaming cup at him. “I added dehydrated limes like you said. What do you think?”

Ryder took a thoughtful sip.

“Hmm… I like it! What do you think, Dakota?” He handed me the paper cup filled with rich golden cider.

It was sweet but not cloying, with a nice tang. “It’s delicious.” I took another sip.

The stall owner beamed. “Guess I won’t be seein’ ya tomorrow, Ryder, on account of your big game. Good luck!”

“Thanks!” He gave me a sheepish smile. “I come here a lot.”

“Like the cider stall a lot?”

“Uh, no…”

More stall owners called to him by name. One woman foisted a pastry on him, another guy gave him a poinsettia that was on its last leg for the senior center, another lady gave him a handmade handkerchief that looked like a reindeer.

“Must be nice to be a star hockey player.” I teased him when another older woman plied him with smoked reindeer meat.

“You play hockey, Ryder?” she asked, incredulously. “Guess I should have known from the size of ya. I’m not a sports person. I figured, polite young man like you, you were an office manager or something.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, accepting her questionable jerky.

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