Page 67 of Christmas Kisses

I nod before inconspicuously adjusting the crotch of my trousers. I’ve never heard a more provocative noise. “You’d be amazed at what people will do for the right amount of coin.”

Ignoring how her excited expression switches to miffed as fast as mine, I drag a knife through the Cyrovac seal, dangle four slices of pastrami meat in front of my mouth, and then tear through it with my teeth.

Angel watches one-half of our shared ingredient slide down my throat before her eyes lower to the bread rolls sealed in a plain white bag.

“The bakery owner’s note said you’d know her signature, so if I want to assure you that the goods haven’t been tainted, Ishould show it to you.” I show her the note scribbled across the seal keeping two bedrolls fresh, before piercing them with the tip of my knife.

“Take them for every O they’re willing to give.”

—Mrs. Anderson

“I feel like there’s a story behind her slogan, and it is only brought out for certain members of Ravenshoe.”

Angel’s smile slows down my sandwich-making skills, proving I’m not as good at multitasking as I once believed. “There is…” She flashes me a smirk that has me fumbling like an idiot. “But I’m not a girl who kisses and tells.”

I stiffen like a virgin.

Angel’s response is on the opposite end of the spectrum.

“Not like that.” She roars in laughter. “Harlow is married.” Compared to her shout, her next sentence is closer to a whisper. “And I’m not interested in girls.”

I hit her with a stupid wink, feigning this isn’t the first time we’ve been genuinely cordial. “I guess opposites do attract.”

I drink in her silentHaha!before slicing open the bread rolls and nudging my head to the refrigerator now stacked with food. I couldn’t get a single delivery confirmation with a before-Christmas date until I gave them Angel’s address. Then offers for immediate dispatch were handed over left, right, and center.

Again, it announced that I had picked the wrong team to side with when I landed in Ravenshoe.

“Butter?”

“No. I’m too hungry to wait.” Angel leans over the counter, snatches up a bread roll, and slaps it with a hefty chunk of pastrami before ripping her teeth through the barely closed chunk of carbs.

I’ll never eat anything bread-related again without getting hard when a moan rumbles up her chest. It is the exact noise I imagine she’d make while accepting my dick between her pouty lips, and it has me suddenly no longer hungry for food or answers.

“This issogood.”

Another bite.

Another prolonged chew.

Another aching throb pulsating through my cock.

Who knew something as simple as eating could be so damn sexy?

“Huh?” I ask, forcing my eyes from Angel’s lips when the voice pushing me to the brink of cardiac arrest trickles through my ears. “Did you say something?”

With a touch of a smile, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before asking, “Are you not eating?”

“Yeah… ah… I’m planning to. I just prefer condiments with my meat.”

Angel watches my stalk to the fridge as she crosses her heart. “The butter is still in date. You have my word. I’ll never recover from a summer at my grandmother’s country estate.” She takes another bite before talking around the massive chunk, too famished from not eating for twenty-four hours to remember basic eating etiquette. “I kept telling my mom that the butter tasted weird. She didn’t believe me… until half her toast was buttered with mold.” When I screw up my face, she laughs a crummy chuckle. “Yep! That’s how out-of-date the butter was. The bottom half of the tub was pure penicillin.” With one truth, another always follows. “I put powdered milk into the jug to make you think it was out of date.” I don’t get a chance to reply. “And I didn’t know they would make the dishes that hot. I wanted them to add a slight tingle to your backside, not have hemorrhoid-removing capabilities.”

For the first time in a long time, I genuinely laugh. It turns Angel’s cheeks red in an instant, and my plans deviate for the umpteenth time today. “I’ll be sure to let my proctologist know who’s to blame for the loss of income.” When Angel looks lost, I say, “A proctologist is an ass doctor, right?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a hemorrhoid.”

“Neither have I.”

She gives me a look as if she doesn’t believe me before she slips off the stool and moseys into the living room with her half-eaten sandwich in hand.

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