Page 48 of Christmas Kisses

“I’m just confused as to why you seem to think I am one.”

“Aunt Bec,” I huff out with a laugh as if that is the answer to everything. “She’s a little…randy.” My impersonation of his accent during my last word is appalling.

“Clearly if you believe she is responsible for this…” He waves his hand around my apartment in the same manner I used to articulate “randy” before dragging it down his barely-coveredbody. It is a fight to remove my eyes from his rock-hard abs when he continues. “Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little in love with your aunt.”

Laughing, I slouch back on my couch and then fold my arms over my chest. “Last birthday, she set me up on four blind dates…at the same time. She had taken a liking to reverse harem books over the summer and thought I should experience it since I’m her only single niece.”

I grit my teeth. I’m meant to be waving an I’m-not-interested flag, not announcing my single status.

I watch him closely while murmuring, “She said something about four holes being filled at once.” He looks confused, prompting me to say, “I’m still trying to work out where my fourth hole is.”

He smirks, and it makes the conditions in the living room unbearable. I love Aunt Rebecca, but she can be a pain. Principles have no part in her life plan. That’s why she left me to fight this battle on my own. I could be sipping champagne on her latest husband’s mega yacht if my father hadn’t drummed values into me at a young age.

My thoughts are returned to the present when the half-naked man in my apartment says, “Isn’t the fourth hole your ear?”

“I thought the same,” I reply. “But wouldn’t that make it five holes?” I point to my mouth, my pussy, my ass, and then both my ears, tripling his delicious red hue. “That’s five.”

He twists his lips as if he’s never considered that before he inches closer, making the flame burning me from the inside out even hotter. This man is so sexy that I’m on the cusp of being incinerated. “I guess you are right.” A trickle of disappointment treks through my veins when he says, “Perhaps we can discuss it further during dinner?”

His reply exposes he’s my new houseguest, which makes me even more wishful that he was a man who talked with hishands. The number of moves his mouth does as he expresses himself has me picturing its skill in far less amicable positions. I promised no more naked downward dog yoga poses with paying guests after Aunt Bec had to fly halfway across the globe to kick out the last dud.

“We can eat out or order in.”

After sighing away my disappointment, I say, “You’ll never get a reservation this close to Christmas, so my vote is in.”

Nodding, he twists to face a phone on the kitchen counter. I yank my phone out of my pocket. I don’t recall an email from my Airbnb hostess account, but my service has been on the fritz since I reached forty-five thousand unopened emails. It desperately needs a cleanout—just like the cobwebs between my legs.

My eyes shoot up from the “No new emails found” message at the bottom of my inbox when my new houseguest says, “I’m happy for us to eat here, but if you’d rather we do that at your apartment, that’s fine as well.”

“Myapartment?” When he nods, I laugh. “This ismyapartment. I don’t know what you thought you were signing up for, but the advertisement clearly states a room in asharedapartment.”

He spins to face me so fast that he almost loses his towel.

Only almost.

Bah humbug!

“What do you mean? What advertisement?”

And here I was thinking Englishmen were smart.

I give him a look as if I am sorry he has all the brawn and only a little bit of brain. I’m not, but I’m a seasoned actor, so he will never know. “The Airbnb ad.”

He still looks stumped. “I’ve never used Airbnb in my life.”

Confusion echoes in my tone. “Then what are you doing here? I barely have time for Airbnb’s app, so I haven’t advertised my room to rent anywhere else.”

“I’m here because this ismyapartment.” He speaks slowly as if I am dumb, and it ensures I have no trouble hearing the pure honesty in his tone.

After trudging across my living room floor, I pull open my door and thrust my hand at the 17B brass lettering on the door. “Apartment 17B.” I yank my driver’s license out of my purse before highlighting the address next to the dreaded ill-timed, not-allowed-to-smile photograph. “17B.”

“Um.” His skin is already pasty, but it whitens more when he moves for a wad of papers next to his phone. “17B,” he mimics while dragging his finger across the address cited on a recently approved tenancy agreement.

“What the hell?” I snatch the document out of his hand so ruefully that ripping shreds through my ears. “This can’t be right,” I gabber out after scanning the document’s first page. “This ismyapartment. I’ve lived here for years.” It is actually decades. I just don’t want him to mistake my inability not to frown as old-age wrinkles.

“That’s not what the building supervisor said while showing me throughmyapartment.” His arrogance lowers a smidge before he mutters, “And while changing the locks.” A serious expression crosses his face. “Were you given an eviction notice?”

“Yes, but they don’t count.” When he scoffs, I talk faster. “We have court orders”—I droop like a picked flower on a summer’s day when he arches a brow—“in the process of being lodged.” When my backflip loses me his trust, I say, “I’ll prove it.”

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