Page 48 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

“Yup,” he says as what resembles a genuine human smile breaks out amid his beard.

“What’s that on the one at the end?” I point to the farthest tree that has something extra on it that I can’t quite make out.

His eyes meet mine, and the glint in them reignites that tremor low in my belly. Could this man be any hotter?

No.

The answer is no.

He could not be.

“Come see.” He puts down the water and takes about three strides to get to the end of the line of trees.

It takes me closer to six.

He looks from the tree to me. Doing that thing withhis eyes again.

I refuse to be drawn into that and force myself to focus on his artwork.

There, amid the branches, he’s painted a nest. A bird’s nest. With three little baby bird faces peeking out the top.

I mean, they look like they’ve been painted by a twelve-year-old with limited art skills, but I have to give him credit for thinking of it and trying.

“You painted a bird’s nest?”

He nods. Slowly.

And my eyes have been tempted back in again. Trained on his, as though if I stop looking into them I might stop breathing. My chest trembles, which makes my breath come out in strange little bursts.

He takes half a step closer and the aroma of spicy oranges cuts through the smell of fresh paint, triggering something in my brain that sends sparks to every corner of my body. The cloth I was holding falls out of my hand.

“When I was leaving the theater on Saturday,” Gabe says, “I bumped into Abigail and her dad outside. For some reason she told me she likes birds, and that last spring a starling built a nest on the corner of their garage and she and her dad kept an eye on it. Then there were eggs. And then the eggs hatched one by one. And she seemed so excited and fascinated by it. So I thought I’d?—”

And my fingers are on his beard, pulling his startled face toward mine as I reach up on tiptoe and my lips find his for the second time in two days.

And this time I don’t care. He can’t be that much of an ass if he’s painted baby birds for Abigail. And we’re both here for only a couple more weeks. What other chance am I going to have to get my hands on the hottest hunk of human I have ever set eyes on?

He doesn’t pull away. He closes his eyes, and after acouple of brushes of his lips against mine they part, his tongue searches for mine, finds it and that’s it—I’m lost, gone, dissolving into the warmth of his mouth, the tickle of his beard, the strength of his body against mine.

Then his hands are under my butt, and he picks me up, pulling my legs around his waist.

This is the most reckless thing this unadventurous girl has done in her entire life. And it feels really fucking good. Thrilling, wildly dangerous, and really fucking good.

Gabe is walking now. Carrying me down the steps at the front of the stage.

I break contact with his mouth for a second. “Where are we going?”

When we reach the front row of seats, he lets go of me with one hand, leaving my entire weight supported on just one of his forearms while he reaches behind me, arranging something.

“I thought here might be good.” He gently lowers me onto his jacket that he’s just laid out on the seat.

Oh, for the love of all that is holy,he was laying out his coat for me. My legs would collapse under me from the total swooniness of it all if he hadn’t alreadyset me down on his coat.

But there’s no way I’m going to let him know that.

“I still don’t like you,” I tell him.

“And I totally respect that,” he growls, and kneels between my legs.

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