Page 81 of Holly and Nick Hate Christmas
I looked up to meet his coffee-colored eyes. “What?” Then my gaze drifted further above his head.
To the cluster of mistletoe hanging over us.
“Oh.” I would’ve backed up except my body refused to leave the warmth he offered. I was a moth. “Where’s Ryan when you need him, huh?”
“We never finished talking about that, you know.” Nick still hadn’t let go, and I still hadn’t stepped away.
I raised an eyebrow. “About mistletoe?”
“About what was…acceptable…operation behavior, and what wasn’t.” He cleared his throat.
“Ah, yes. Like hand-holding.” His touch on my arms was going to melt the pom-poms right off my sweater. Had someone turned on a heater? “And your tree branch arm.”
He shook his head at me, as if I were incorrigible, his eyes still holding mine, except now they’d deepened to espresso. “You caught me off guard, was all.”
I licked my suddenly dry lips. “That seems to be the theme of this week.”
“I mean, waking up to a snowman was definitely unexpected.” He smiled, back to rubbing my arms. But I hadn’t been cold for the last sixty seconds at least. “All the operations. All the rules.”
“We’ve followed them pretty well so far, I’d say.” I tilted my chin up. What was I doing? This was ridiculous.
“Mistletoe is, like, a rule.” His gaze darted briefly upward before landing back on mine.
“It is. It’d be a pity to, uh, break our rule-following streak now.” Oh my gosh, was I flirting? Did that even count?
“I agree.” Nick nodded solemnly, his hands stilling on my shoulders. “I mean, Operation: Jack & Sally demands it, really.”
“How so?” Hope pitched in my voice. Yeah, I was definitely not subtle. Thanks, Sinclair female gene pool.
“Just to make it seem more believable.” Nick’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he edged an inch closer, his hands sliding to my wrists. “For whoever might be watching.”
“Right. For the operation’s sake.” My chin was definitely turned upward now, my view of Nick’s dimple amplified. Christmas music sounded faintly from the house, barely discernible over my heart thudding in my ears. Ice crunched under my boot as I moved closer toward him.
He lowered his head, his eyes searching mine. Giving me one last chance to change my mind.
My stomach flipped. How could someone be so masculine and appealing while wearing such a train wreck of a sweater? And yet confidence radiated off Nick the way light radiated off the firepit.
Change my mind? Not this Christmas.
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, effectively stealing my breath and leaving a trail of heat down my cheek. Then, in one smooth motion, he cupped the back of my neck and tugged me to him.
I didn’t think people shot fireworks three days before Christmas.
My heart erupted into colored lights as his lips touched mine. His other hand rested lightly on my back, and I hated every inch of the space between us. So I closed it, pressing against him on tiptoe to better celebrate this time-honored tradition of mistletoe.
Maybe not all of Christmas was so bad.
His lips moved with mine, and despite the fact we were standing outside in the cold and there were neighbors playingPin the Star near a window ten feet away and people roasting marshmallows the other direction, he took his time. There was zero urgency in the kiss; rather, everything else stood still and time bent to mesh with his movements.
It was just us, and the inky black sky, and the lingering essence of chocolate.
I threaded my fingers into the back of Nick’s hair, relishing the way the silky strands felt between my fingers. His arm tightened around me, and I snuggled into the warmth of his chest. Oh man, our sweaters werenotgoing to be the same after this proximity.
His stubble was rough against my cheek, but I didn’t care, pausing a moment to catch my breath and brush my lips against the bristle. He dropped a kiss on my cheek before we both found each other’s lips again, slower this time, more intentionally.
Less mistletoe, and more…Nick. More us.
Was there an us?
