Page 25 of Ewan

Those gemstone-like eyes, framed by dark lashes and narrowed at me with a severe look that normally would throw me back but now acts like a magnet, making me want to pull even closer, pick up the tip of his beard, peel it off, and see the rest of his face.

“Sorry,” I mumble, my hand hurting. So does my craned neck and every strained muscle in my back. “I’m Ms. Scarlett Beauchamp. Everybody calls me Ms. Scarlett,” I offer the typical introduction I use with kids, parents, and teachers. “And you are?”

His eyes dip slightly, taking a detour across my chest before sliding past my waist and giving me an appraisal look from my hips down.

An electric current flows through my frame.

“Santa,” he grumps, and a sweet smell of mints tinged with a hint of alcohol enters my nostrils.

The smell is not offensive, um…for adults, but kids?

A kernel of tension spins in my chest.

He peeks at my hand but doesn’t do a thing, so I let it drop to my side and step closer to him.

Surprised by my move, he turns around to face me.

I notice his coat doesn’t fit his broad chest, so it’s open at the neck, where an inked pattern of a few words ignites my imagination.

Is he an MMA fighter?

Does he even know where he is?

I push even closer and tip my face up, holding his eyes like they’re my reason to live.

“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask quietly.

The flicker of a contained smile flashes across his hypnotic gaze.

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re not the nineteen year old we were expecting.”

“I’m just as good at this, if not better,” he says, a wolfish wink accompanying his words, a smile hidden behind his beard.

I bet he wasn’t talking about playing Santa.

Should I be offended or flattered?

He’s not exactly hitting on me.

He’s just cheeky.

“Have you done this before?” I ask, not peeling my eyes from his.

He’s the one who pulls closer this time, and I feel his heated, sweet breath across my lips.

My nostrils flare as I inhale the mix of sweetness, unmistakable whiskey aroma, and a drop of aftershave or spicycologne. I hope no one’s watching because from afar, we might look like we’re about to kiss.

“What are we talking here?”

His words come in small bursts, a heavy undertone to his husky voice.

I never thought a raspy and whiskey-like voice like his could turn me on so badly, but from my tense thighs clenching against my pulsing heat to my hard nipples and the quiver in my knees, I learn something different.

I haven’t had sex in months.

I had planned to do it when the divorce was final. I wanted to give myself a well-deserved treat and also to push out all that tension, but I never had the opportunity.

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