Page 58 of Knot Beneath the Mistletoe

I whirl around to find Knox leaning against the stair railing, one hand tucked into the pocket of his low-slung jeans. His white t-shirt clings to every muscle, and those biceps... He’s barefoot, looking completely at home in this palace of his. The heat must be cranked because I’m suddenly very warm.

“So, this is where mountain guides live nowadays? I think I chose the wrong career.”

He pushes off the railing and walks toward me with a devastatingly sexy grin curling on his lips. “I preferoutdoor recreation specialist.”

“Fancy title for someone who basically gets paid to go hiking.”

He stops inches from me, close enough that I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. “I do more than just hike. I’ll have you know I’m an expert in making trail mix and telling top-notch jokes.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. What did the mountain climber name his son?”

I groan. “Please don’t...”

“Cliff.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I’ve got more. What kind of photos do mountain climbers take?”

“Knox...”

“Cliffies.”

I can’t help but laugh, which makes his whole face light up. “Do you actually tell these to your clients?”

“Only the special ones.”

"And why's that?"

His eyes flick upward, and I follow his gaze to a sprig of mistletoe dangling from the ceiling. I take an immediate step back, my chest tightening. "Nope. Not happening. Never beneath the mistletoe."

I try to push away the memories that surface - Dad's cruel laugh, Mom's face crumpling as he tore into her for being so pathetic, so desperate for a Christmas kiss. Just marketing for weak-minded fools, he'd snarled.

Knox’s watching me carefully, his earlier playfulness dimming. "Something wrong with mistletoe?"

"Let's just say my father wasn't a fan when I was growing up." I shrug, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "Guess some things stick with you."

"Not sure how anyone can hate a symbol that encourages kissing."

“You hungry?” He changes the topic and I respect him even more for not prying.

Something sweet and cinnamony wafts through the air, making my stomach growl too loud. “Is that what I think it is?”

Instead of answering, he cups my face and kisses me on the mouth. It’s not gentle—it’s hungry and deep and makes my toes curl against the hardwood floor. He tastes like cinnamon and coffee, and my insides just melt. When he pulls back, I’m breathless and a little dizzy.

“Come on,” he says, taking my hand. “I’ve got something to show you.”

I join him, unable to stop smiling.

The kitchen is a chef’s dream—all stainless steel and granite, with a huge island in the center. Lily and Hannah would go insane for this kitchen. Industrial-grade appliances gleam, and there’s a coffee maker that looks like it could power a small city. But what catches my attention are the cookies cooling on a rack by the window. “Are those...”

“Snickerdoodles.” He lifts me easily onto the counter, stepping between my legs like he belongs there. My heart does a little skip when his hands settle on my thighs. “My specialty.”

“Liar. They’re my favorite.”

“Mine, too.” Something shadows his expression. “My mom used to make them. Taught me before...” He clears his throat, and I resist the urge to smooth away the crease between his brows. “Said every man should know how to bake at least one thing properly. Want to be my taste tester?”

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